Keep Them Flying
by Leaf Skeletons
Summary: AU; oneshots surrounding a canon character from each cabin. Set in World War II. Nominated for the Phoenix Awards 2013 - Alternate Universe.
1. My mother woke me up one night

_Author's Note: For obvious reasons, I won't be touching the cabins of Hera and Artemis. I will be including the Hades one, though._

The siren was what awoke Thalia Grace. She opened her sleep-crusted eyes to the sounds of chaotic organisation. Grabbing a gas mask off her nightstand, she rushed out of her house.

The sky was grey like a pale dawn; it was half past two. Across the street, a harried teacher was leading a line of children towards a shelter. Their grubby fingers smeared with jam had tiny gas masks dangling off them.

A wail pierced the air and Thalia cursed. There were always people who would start to panic. Goddammit, this was London in 1940, did they honestly expect anything different?

The air had begun to crust a harsh black and urgent footsteps crushed the street; fear was rampant but they were after all, _British._

A steady drone chilled her bones to river-ice. Screams punctuated the afternoon and the sky was suddenly filled an approaching horde of Luftwaffe planes. The harried walking turned into runs as people trembled their way to the underground.

Caught up in the rapids, Thalia was pushed backwards and forwards and she found herself a little ways off the pavement; she had just about fallen to the ground.

"Need my help, miss?" This was one of the Americans, she could tell from his accent. He had blue eyes and blonde hair.

"Yes, thank you."

The first bomb hit; the street was mostly empty.

It was a row of houses a few minutes away from them. The dusty grey smouldered into a deadly palette of fiery ribbons as the acrid sting of smoke kissed the day. Thalia felt her heart race as _her _sky was filled with more of the beasts.

"Better get to the shelter." The soldier rushed, panic evident on his face. She briefly registered that he had a scar.

"Oh, yes." She found out that she had time for sarcastic bastardy. "I just about forgot!"

He was about to make a retort that would have been lost over the gargling mess when a brittle cry raised their eyes to one of the nearby houses.

The sky was now orange as well.

It was hardly pretty.

Actually, it was devastatingly, painfully beautiful.

"There's a kid in there!" Thalia shouted as she and the soldier rushed towards the brick façade of the suspicious house.

"I'll go get him and you make your way down the shelter, miss, I must insist!"

"Oh, shut it!"

They both ran towards the house, the cries and the scraping of the planes getting louder as the fire rose.

They fumbled a bit with the pale blue door but luckily it was left unlocked. Hurtling up the staircases where the cries were echoing from, they bumped into one another.

Another resounding crash sent the ground underneath their feet vibrating madly; plates shattered towards the linoleum from the kitchen.

The frantic screaming was shuddering its way out of the cracks on a plain oaken door. The soldier pressed it open.

The child was a girl with a tumbling of blonde curls with grey eyes. She couldn't have been more than five.

"Where are your mum and dad?" Thalia cooed comfortingly as she made to pick the girl up but the soldier beat her to it, putting his strong arms around the child. The cries subsided a little.

Another boom sent them crashing to the floor. Pictures in gilded frames smashed towards the ground. Outside, London burned as it wept.

"There's no time for the shelter!" The soldier yelled, "We need to find a table, or a… a…"

"Will this work?" Thalia asked, raising her voice over the renewed crying of the girl. She pointed towards a piano.

"I suppose!"

They crawled towards it as the child continued to wail; finally, they squashed up next to each other. The bombing continued, raining down in a violent cacophony.

"I'm Castellan by the way!" The soldier shouted in a futile attempt to keep things normal. "Luke Castellan!"

"People don't normally start introductions with their last name!"

"Well then, what's yours?"

"Grace! Thalia!"

"Oh, you just _had_ to!"

"Chase, Annabeth!" The girl shouted, obviously wanting to join the game. Luke managed a chuckle.

They had no idea how much time was passing as they scrunched together, each desperately praying that none of the bombs would fall on that particular house; and if they did, that that piano would, by sheer luck, be enough to shield them.

_Maybe it'll be my saving grace_, Thalia thought and immediately hated herself for entertaining such a terrible pun.

Finally, finally it ended. Thalia made to get herself out from that stuffy piano after a few minutes of breath-taking silence, but Luke motioned her to wait. A few more minutes later, he gave the all-clear and they scrambled out.

Annabeth rushed towards the window and pressed her face against the sooty glass. Through a haze of dusty shades, they could see the outlines of houses.

"Anything hit on this street?" Thalia asked as she hurried over.

"Mum. Dad." The little girl muttered, her eyes starting to water. Thalia smoothed her hair half-sadly.

"I'm sure they made it to the shelter."

"Would you like us to take you there?" Luke asked.

Annabeth nodded, hurrying down the stairs. The other followed behind.

"So, the military eh?"

"Well, Uncle Sam said he wanted us. So"

"So…"

"You have any relatives serving?"

"My brother Jason, yes. He's… well we're not sure, really. He faked his age and signed up. I'm proud of him." She finished defensively.

Luke snorted. "Same story as half my squad."

Outside, people were starting to appear. Families grabbed hold of another. Sobs and cries of relief cut through the smog. Thalia blinked crusty dust out of her eyes.

They saw the blonde curls rush into the arms of a man in a creased suit, the worry in his eyes crumbling to crushed roses as they embraced.

"Well, there's that taken care of."

Luke nodded.

"You're going to France after this?"

His brow creased. "Honestly? No idea. I kind of hope so, though. Not that London's bad, I mean…" He said quickly.

"It just rains a lot."

"Pretty much." He smiled.

An old man next to them has stiffened his shoulders, his eyes dark with the destruction.

"I'll see you around, I suppose." Thalia said, somewhat regretfully.

"Before I get shipped off, hopefully."

Thalia smiled.


	2. And in my dreams, she said:

_Dear Percy,_

_ Everything's fine here. The society assembled a good amount of clothes yesterday, you'd never imagine that people could be so kind. I'm not sure where we're shipping this batch of to but Mrs Lorcroft says it might be Europe. That's where you are, isn't it? If it is, it must be beautiful there. I know its rather stupid of me to be talking about something like the scenery, but I don't really know what else to say._

_ The little boy who lives down the street- Martha's son- misses you. Did you know he was waiting outside on the stoop, with that yo-yo he always has yesterday? He asked me where you where. The conversation went something like this:_

_ "Where's Mr Percy, ma'am?"_

_ "He's gone away to fight. He's a soldier now."_

_ His face lit up so brightly- like the lights on the first Christmas tree we managed to put up last year. I could see he was so proud to have known you and Percy, it made me so proud. _

_ Then agan, I'm always proud to be your mother._

_ I remember you being little like him, long ago. There used to be a boy down the street- I've forgotten his name, old age, I suppose- who used to get bullied all the time. You'd come home and tell me about it, about how he was poor and couldn't afford lunch. We made him cookies, remember? And then your teacher wrote me that letter to say that you'd beat up the boys who were hounding him._

_ Honestly, I knew I was supposed to angry. But I couldn't help but be proud of you. _

_ You're my son, and that's more than enough for me._

_ I'm sorry, nostalgia- the curse of the aging. Forgive your mother, Percy._

_ With the new rationing, blue dye's a bit hard to come by, just thought you should know. Anyway, I'm not fond of the sound of the army food they've been giving you. But you're strong, you'll make it I'm sure._

_ Well, the lamp's gone dim and I've got to take in the wash._

_ Stay safe, my son. _

_ Love, your mother._

Percy Jackson had always loved the ocean; hell, he adored it with every fibre of his being. But he had never seen anything as beautiful as the craggy shores of Cornwall.

It could have been the icy chill as it breathed salt into his dry lips.

It could have been the delicate, powerful sea flecked with white crusted spindrift as it slammed into angry rocks.

It could have been anything, really.

In any case, he was now hurtling towards the war in Europe, where it raged undaunted. Growing up where the bay had been mostly Pacific, he had never experienced the sheer beauty of the forbidding Atlantic.

The ship pressed forwards through the steep waves. Overhead, a storm was brewing.

"Fucking hell, that does not look good." It was his mate Leo Valdez; a wiry little boy with something to prove. "My _Tia_ did not like storms, at all. But then she was a little messed up in the head, eh?"

Percy laughed. "Whatever, man. Just feels good to finally be out on the sea."

_"Amigo,_ we were stationed at Cornwall for three weeks and you went to the beach every day. 'Finally' my old Tia's foot."

Percy grinned. "I don't need your sass, flame head."

"Flame head? And what in hell's name is that supposed to mean?"

"To be honest? I couldn't think of anything better."

They were nudging each other for a couple of minutes as the briny breeze laughed through their hair when the alarm sounded. The mood turned wintry and thunder crashed as shouts began to echo from the main decks.

Below them, the floorboards rumbled. Percy bit back a wild spinning fear; he knew that sound.

"U-boat!" Someone shouted desperately. "We've been hit by a torpedo, fucking damn!"

Chaos had erupted below decks as frantic soldiers did all they could to defend themselves and stop the damage. Face pale, Leo cast Percy a terrified look that he quickly replaced with bravado as they both raced below-decks according to drill.

Halfway through their run, as the sky and the sea sang a violent hymn, another torpedo brushed through the ship, knocking Percy off his feet.

His lower ankle was bleeding and he pulled himself up, wincing.

Leo was nowhere to be seen.

Another blast rocketed him off into the sea's clammy embrace. Percy had been spending all his life swimming, however; he managed to himself afloat, his head bobbing above the churning waves as his head danced in a furious siren frenzy.

The ship was quickly descending into the throes of the ocean and Percy felt so helpless and useless and his friends were aboard, oh god, his friends-

It had begun to pour thick showers that accentuated the sinking of the ship. Percy was desperately trying to keep himself afloat as the water twisted him about and he gurgled.

His friends-

The locals had a different name for mermaids; merry maids, they were called.

Percy was beginning to descend and there was nothing he could do about it. His fingers desperately grasped for air as his head was eaten by the biting salty ocean, spindrift curling her white fingers into his eyes as he gave out his last breath and let the ocean take him down under.

The sky wept as her sister gently carried him into the cold hollows where she kept her best treasures.

* * *

"Dear Lord..."

"What is it, Martha?"

The woman pointed across the street, where an army jeep was rumbling down. Someone in another house had put up the neighbourhood' s first sign of an overseas casualty, the Silver Star. Missing in action.

Sally's breath caught in her throat like lamp-lights in mists as the jeep slowed, approaching them.

A young man got out, his clean-shaven face uncomfortable. There was a creamy letter in his hands. His eyes glanced up at the porch- her porch.

God, no. Please.

_ Please._

"Mrs Sally Jackson?"

_Yes._

"Yes." She whispered again, her voice a garbled croak. The little boy had come again, the yo-yo dangling from his sticky fingers. Martha rushed forward and pulled him away by the shoulders.

The sky was very blue.

"I..." The soldier looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but here. "I'm sorry to inform you miss, but your son..."

"What was it?" She felt surprisingly strong despite the pounding in her head.

"He was very brave. It was a sea accident..."

"The sea."

"I'm sorry."

_"Mother, when can we go back to the beach?"_

_ "Next month perhaps." Her little boy was growing bigger but his eyes were the same. Green like his father's._

_ "I like the beach. I like the sea." Just like his father; but he was better. He was kinder, he was brave. He was good._

_ "Do you?" She ruffled his hair._

_ "One day I'm going to be a merman- they live under the sea, don't they, mum? And they get to be underwater every day! That'll be fun."_

How cruel.


	3. Will you the hell-born devil fight

Katie Gardner was not a poet, but she loved flowers. There was a creek a ways behind her house under a river sky with pricks of white for clouds; wildflowers of every kind imaginable bloomed from the banks and she would gently coax them out with her grubby fists and string them together into a crown; like a faerie-queen she entwined them in her hair and danced in the way of children, kicking the shimmering water around her bare ankles and earning a scolding from her mother for her wet socks (she removed them, but her feet were always damp when she pulled them back on) upon her return.

* * *

_Cologne, 1927_

She had a book of ruffled coffee-stained pages (it was once her father's) that she painstakingly filled out with the meaning behind each flower, whenever she found out. It had been one year and she had a grand total of one entry.

-x-

A new family had moved into the box house next to hers. She had peeped behind the threadbare curtains, and had seen, amongst the pile of boxes and a skinny cat, two boys about her age, curly haired and dark eyed. She had known immediately, from their elfish grins, that they were not to be trusted.

Her father had looked on at the father of those boys with a practiced eye; raking over the red pins on his lapel.

Communist.

Not to be trusted, also.

-x-

"What are you doing!" Katie screamed as she scrambled out of her front door towards the garden. The taller of the two New Boys was holding a fistful of daisies, damp earth bits scuttling from its torn roots.

_Daisy: The meaning is to be innocent. Innocent is to not know._

"My name is Travis and this is my brother Connor." The boy seemed to see no problem in stealing other people's hard grown work. "Thank you for the flowers, my cat is hungry." He said this reasonably, as if there was an obvious connection between the two.

"Those are my flowers!" The little girl huffed angrily as she pulled on a pair of too-big wellingtons (her mother would insist if she was awake). "You are thieves! Get out, Get out!"

Her dark eyes were buzzing with a barely restrained anger, but it was the wet tears in them that truly scared the boys and the one called Travis dropped the daisies into the mauled earth as he and his brother scurried furiously over the fence into the enclave of their home. The kitchen was cool and musty and there was strudel cooling on an oaken table.

She had spent such a long time over those daisies, it was the first time her mother had allotted her a portion of the garden. She had thought daisies dainty and pretty, like the rainbow glints in prisms. She had saved- a tiny penny here, a small coin there- for a long time before she could buy a packet of the seeds. And now they were gone.

-x-

The next morning (rain: grey sky, harsh droplets and pale mist), she spotted a bushel of flowers hastily wrapped in brown wax paper on her doorstep. It didn't take a genius to figure out, especially with the misspelled Sorry in scratchy lettering on the wrap, who they were from.

They were roses, and they were pink.

_Rose: It means love, but there are many colours. Pink is for friends._

* * *

_September 1930  
_

It was a sunny day, which suited Herr Gardner very well. His SS uniform was crisp on the mussed bed, his hair combed neatly to the side. Outside, he was making sure the Wife was teaching his daughter how to cook. She would have to be a good German maiden, an asset to the Fatherland. He decided that he would take a morning walk before the rally. Shutting the thin-spiel gate behind him (like the old paper clips he had used back as a clerk during the Great War), he saw the neighbour, Stoll, shut the door behind him.

The two appraised each other coldly before plastering fake smiles on their hard faces. Somewhere in the forest, a beige bunny-rabbit hopped through the green.

Gardner noticed that Stoll was holding the daily paper; he noticed the clenched fists (tension, he thought smugly, and rightly so). That infuriating red badge was still pinned to his lapel.

"Morning." He broke the silence, and Herr Stoll waved the paper in reply.

"107 seats, the party won!" Gardner boomed happily. He heard something in the house break- the Wife was going to pay for the plate herself- and Herr Stoll grimaced, wincing.

"It is still early, _comrade_." He chose the word particularly to infuriate his neighbour. One of his sons, the younger one, ran out onto the porch and tackled his father from behind- the man grinned and ruffled the boy's curls affectionately.

"Da, mother says it's time to eat."

"I will be seeing you, Herr Gardner." Stoll inclined his head.

Before he shut the door behind him, Herr Gardner raised his arm in a salute. "Heil Hitler!" The words rang through the cheerful morning, their bleakness strangely welcome.

"Not yet, my good man." Herr Stoll replied. "Not yet."

-x-

"And that is why they say that the Eiffel tower is named so." Travis said knowledgeably, nodding his head. "It is made up of many sticks of metal, all called the Eiffel. That is the French word for... do you know, Connor?"

Katie's widened in anticipation of the to-be-gained knowledge.

"It is French for bullshit!" The little boy said gleefully and Katie gasped angrily at the swear. She scooped up a flash of river water in her palm and sploshed the cool liquid onto his curls.

"You must not say that!" She wiped her hands on her pinafore. "You also lied. Eiffel is _not_ French for... for that." With a final nod that settled the matter, the three friends lay back against the banks, watching the blue sky above them.

The silence was a contented one for the few minutes that it smiled lazily before Travis interrupted.

"Katie, what does your father say about mine at home?"

The girl stiffened. Her father rarely talked to her, and whatever insults he had to throw at his neighbour were hissed to her mother as he sat turning the dial on the radio as crackly static dusted the room and settled like a film over the furniture.

_Communist pig__._

_ Traitor.  
_

_ No good, Jew-loving leech.  
_

"He says nothing. Why?"

"I can tell he doesn't like him. My father doesn't like yours either."

Now, Katie had no particular love for her father, apart from the fact that he was her _father_, but insulting your own family is all and very well until someone else does it so she sat up abruptly, daring the boy to say more with her eyes.

"Your father loves Jews!" She spat before he could start and Travis sat up, Connor scooting up next to him angrily.

"There is nothing wrong with Jews!"

"My father says-"

"Your father is wrong!"

"My father is never wrong!"

_White Chrysanthemum: It tells us to be truthful. It says be Honest. Sometimes it is hard. Sometimes you don't want to be honest. Mother says not to lie._

A slim branch dropped from one of the trees, knocking against others on its descent. Katie had not met any Jew apart from the boy, a Reuben Levin who lived down the way from them. Her father had told her never to speak to his family. He did not look so different, and you could not tell that he was a Jew. He was a quiet boy_.  
_

His father owned a sweet-shop, sticky globes that tasted of summer in glass jars. Whatever Katie had heard, he seemed a nice enough man. Polite, tidy. But she never spoke to him, she only knew what she heard.

Reuben had some sort of friendship with the Stoll brothers- both of families that were not looked kindly upon by the township, although the stigma was significantly lesser for the Stolls than the Levins. Perhaps she should not have said that.

"I am sorry." She said, promising to herself that she would speak no more of Jews until she had spoken to one of them. Travis took out a packet of oat biscuits from his pocket and broke two pieces in fairly equal parts for the three of them and no more was said of the subject.

* * *

_March, 1933_

The devil had awoken in Germany almost fully. The Reichstag building had been set aflame and by common consensus- Hitler sat back and grinned- the Communists were found guilty._  
_

For the Stolls, it had begun.

The night was cool and the sky had grown stars. Herr Stoll stared worriedly out his window. A yellow light bloomed out of Herr Gardner's window and there was activity in the main square.

"Maria." His wife walked towards him, her blue eyes concerned. He put a hand on her arm. "Are the boys asleep?"

"I think so." She whispered, taking his cheek in her hand. "Will they really-"

"I am pretty certain it is tonight."

"You could have run." She said softly, "We could have left."

"I am not a coward. Besides there is not enough time." The room was silent apart from the mocking of the clock, heavy and carved atop the mantelpiece. The floor was scuffed from the boy's most recent misadventure.

"Sit with me?" Herr Stoll asked his wife, and the question was the End, already.

"Of course."

They sat in the dimming lights until the sounds from the square became more furious in their intensity, causing the night air to rip and bleed. It roused the walls from their shackles and the mob was approaching their street. Maria gripped her husband's arm as a heavy pounding fell upon the door.

Herr Stoll stood staunchly.

"Now Herr Gardner-" his voice almost broke as it fell into a whisper. "There is no need to break the door."

But break it they did and the men were upon him, furious in their hysteria as they dragged him out of the house. He could hear Maria screaming behind him and he heard the door to his boy's room open.

"Communist scum!"

"Fucken leech!"

"_Father_!"

Maria clung to both of the boys, the mischief in their eyes dimmed.

"I love you." He managed to croak before the crowd dragged him on the truck and pulled him away.

-x-

The brothers had been locked up in their house for days now. Katie's father refused to tell her what had been done to Herr Stoll. Breakfast was a silent affair, punctuated by the clinking of the spoons.

"You are not to talk to the boys." Herr Gardner said sharply, drawing a pressed handkerchief against his lips. Katie watched a spot of milk fleck towards the polished table in distaste.

"Father, they are my friends."

"You are not to speak to them!" He yelled again, slamming his spoon down on the table. Katie flinched and dropped her head to stare at her lap. "But they- their father is gone, I have to speak-"

"You are a German."

(Find the lie.

He was not telling her to be German.

He was telling her to be Nazi.

There was a difference.

There was a big difference.)

The meal continued in silence.

_Holly: Domestic happiness: Happiness of the home.  
_

* * *

_August 1935 (they are fifteen)  
_

Katie had pulled on her uniform. It was starched and felt scratchy to her calloused fingers. The vase on the dining table was filled with fresh daisies, an act that seemed almost cruel in its irony.

Before she dropped into her seat at class, her satchel strap pressing into her skin, Katie caught Travis's eyes. For a moment, there were summer days and flowers by a river, but the next there was a mob and a lost father and a lost friend. They tore their eyes away with much awkwardness and Katie rolled her shoulders back, straightening her neck as the teacher walked into the door.

If she had turned, she would have seen one of the boys toss a paper wad into the Stoll's curls. Connor would have responded by pulling the wad out of his hair with a big grin- aw, shucks, for me?- and put it into the glass jar that he had polished insolently for his "presents".

The teacher made them stand and raise their arms in the Nazi salute.

When they sat, scraping their chairs in ghastly unison, she began. Her lips were dry and the words raspy.

"The Jew," She began, flicking the pages of the book (she was very pretty, Katie noticed, in that blonde-hair, blue-eyed Aryan ideal that the Stolls and the Levins conspiciously lacked) "Has a skull very obviously smaller than that of the Aryan."

Everyone looked back to where Reuben sat next to the Stolls and did not bother to conceal their snickers.

"The Jew-" the teacher began again, smirking slightly in a way that made Katie hate her, "is-"

"A common gutter rat!" One of the boy's finished for her. Katie winced.

"Shut up." The voice belonged to Connor and it was quiet. Everyone else in the room made sounds of barely disguised elation in the anticipation of a ruckus.

"What is it, Communist?" The boy- his named was Rudolph- asked with a raised eyebrow, "Scared we'll take your friend away the same way we took away your father-"

Reuben leaped from his seat onto the boy in anger and a fight broke out. There was screaming and there was taunting and the Stolls and Levin were the only members on the losing side.

The teacher was panicking and she ran out of the class-room to get help. Katie quickly stood from her seat and made her way to the thick of the fray, yelling for them to stop, stop, stop.

They did not stop.

_Wisteria: Steadfast. Always there._

_ Rhododendron: Be careful, please.  
_

When the fight was broken up there was blood and broken teeth. Of course, the fault was that- in obvious parallel to the state of the country, Rudolph smugly claimed- of the Communists and the Jew.

* * *

_November, 1938_

_ The Night of Broken Glass  
_

Reuben's youngest brother, Malcolm, was young enough to be shipped off to England for his safety. The rest of his family were not so lucky. On this night, there so many stars in the sky, the forest seemed to be lit up in ice.

Katie shivered as a gust of wind blew in through her open window. She knew what was planned for tonight. The killing of the Nazi by the Jew in Paris had made headlines, stirred the beast up once again. The people were angry.

Angry beasts need feeding.

She had heard Rudolph say gleefully to his friends what the night would bring. Her father too, was dressed up in full uniform (brass included and polished, thank you very much) in preparation for the act.

Was she brave enough?

She decided that for old time's sake, she had to be.

She waited until she heard the door slam, which signalled that he had left for the bar to get a pre-drink to race out of the back door. If she had been any less concerned, she would have loved the way the stars were caught in the daisies in her garden.

Pounding on the door of the Stolls, she prayed.

It was Maria who opened it and she looked far too old to be so young.

"What is it?" Her voice was afraid and bitter. This was, after all, the daughter of the man who had took her husband away.

"I'm sorry but they're planning-"

"Who is this, then?" Travis's voice floated over. It was suspicious, unwelcoming.

"The Nazis are planning tonight, to-"

"Say no more." Maria said hurriedly. She grabbed Connor's arm- he had been standing behind her- and pulled him out. "Go warn the Levins, hurry!"

"Why are you helping us?" Maria asked, the desperation settling into harsh suspicion.

"The Nazi," Travis said lightly, "is feeling generous."

Katie glared at him. "My father is the Nazi. I am just German"

They stood in awkward silence on the porch before Travis grabbed Maria's arm. "Mother, they will come for us as well. They haven't forgiven father, yet- Go to the basement."

"You're coming too." A light had made its way around the bend, spilling over in rage. They were coming.

"I've got to make sure Reuben gets here, mother, go!"

Maria glared at him but it had already begun.

From the end of the street, the sweet-shop had been set aflame.

Connor was too late.

There were four Levins: the mother, the son, the father (who had fought for Germany in the Great War) the grandfather.

Just numbers, yes? Just Jews.

Travis began to run towards the fray as the broken glass skittered over the harsh earth. They mirrored the stars in the sky who did nothing to stop the madness. The night was lit aglow with it.

The old grandfather Levin looked despairingly one as his shop burned towards to the ground. The other two men tried to stop the populace from taking the mother. Bats were brought out and the beatings began. Blood rained down the streets. The Levins were not the only Jews in the township and that much was evident from the amount of liquid trickling through the gaps in the cobblestones.

Katie raced towards the crowd as well, unsure of what to do. She saw Travis and Connor fighting off Rudolph and his gang and she was pushed towards the sidewalk. Thick blows were raining down on the grandfather, he had begun to pray.

He was an old man, a good man.

Every end of the month when he was young, he would scrape together marks to buy his son's favourite cookies. When he was older, he told jokes to his youngest grandson.

But he was a Jew, so no one cared.

"Stop it!" She yelled at Rudolph, grabbing the boy's arm. He swung her away and she skittered onto the floor, glass pieces sticking into her skin (they tell us we are made of stardust). And then her father was there, his eyes like the devil's as he picked her up off the floor and dragged her screaming back into their house, not caring that she was getting cut from the glass on the street.

She tossed her, bleeding, into her room and locked the door.

The stars in the sky did nothing but watch.

_White Rose: Forgiveness. Forgive this country. Is it possible? There is too much blood on cut glass._

-x-

The Levins were all shipped away towards the East. The grandfather died. There were four people at the funeral.

The sky was a terrible thing.

It did not rain.

Hitler had made the sky hard as well.

* * *

_October, 1939._

The Stolls knew it was time for them to leave Germany. They would be drafted into the military soon enough and they did not want to leave their mother alone. They did not want to fight, not for them.

Their papers arrived a day after October, the war had already broken out in Poland.

They planned to leave that night and they packed their bags.

The night was dark, the streetlamp dim.

The street was thin and made of cobblestones.

Katie was sitting in her garden, her thick skirt masking the scars that ripped her skin as she stared out into the night. Her eyes were glassy.

From the house of the Stolls, a door closed silently as three thickly-clad people stepped out into the night. When Travis saw Katie, he paled as they all did. From their carpet bags and travelling shawls, Katie knew.

"Wait-" She hissed, grabbing a flower from the garden (the same way a boy had done years ago) and walking over to them. There was no one else awake.

"Don't miss us." Travis said awkwardly and Connor snickered. Maria managed a smile. Katie pressed the delicate flower, the petals soft in her skin into Travis's hand.

"I won't." She promised. The wind glittered. In the forest, a bunny-rabbit drank from the stream.

They turned around to leave, the night pressing down on their shoulders. It was dark.

"I won't tell. Go."

"You better not." Travis winked and she rolled her eyes as she went back inside her house.

From her window, she watched as their backs blended into the black and then, they were gone.

_Bells of Ireland: Good luck, friend  
_

* * *

_August 1944  
_

The Germans, by this time, were losing the war. Allied bombs rained down on the cities many times a week, sometimes daily. The shelter for the little township was located, ironically, in the basement of what had once been the Levin's sweet-shop.

The remaining villagers- sons and fathers gone away, some children and elderly dead from prior bombings- were clustered in the basement as an attack raged on outside. Katie was sitting in a corner with a cluster of children around her, begging her to tell them stories of Manaa the Faerie and Taluk the Witch.

It was a common routine, one set by the regularity of consistence._  
_

The street, by the time it the raid was over, was still mostly untouched, as it had been all these long months. In her house, Katie was the one to prepare dinner. Her father's eyes were no longer bright, but hollow. Everyday he listened eagerly to the radio for any sign of the Nazis regaining the turned tide, and every night he was disappointed.

Rationing and lack of food meant that there was nothing in the larder save a wilted lettuce and a few mournful sticks of chewy carrot. Katie sighed, pressing a hand to her hollow stomach as she turned the fire on and poured some water into the pot. It looked like it was soup for the night.

Outside, the sky was rapidly darkening. The air was like a whistle, hollow and clear. Pale winds made the leaves on the trees flutter gently. It was little things like this that made Katie happy, that made the long nights and rumbling skies a bit more bearable.

Outside, the voices of children rose in a chant of a game. She chopped the carrots with a blunt-edged knife and slid them into the boiling pot. In the forest, a bunny-rabbit stood at the edge of the tree-rings, its nose twitching. An old lady's voice cried out in song.

Katie reached forwards, pushing the window open to let the evening air waltz in.

_Star of Bethlehem: Hope_


	4. Or will you die in bed?

May 1940

The sleepy village of Perdue Ciel was nestled a little way back from the shores of Dunkirk, just in front of an ever-reaching forest that on sunny days glowed in dappled greens and yellows. Today, however, was not such a day.

The swelling sea and bloated sky were both overcast, steel-iron grey. The approaching storm had blurred the horizon, making the separation between the heavens and endless waters indistinguishable.

Inside the little cottage, Ares (he had had a mother with a particularly strange love for the Greek myths) LaRue was bent over his tiny radio, rough hands fumbling with the dials. The room was still dim with the paleness of the early dawn; chill gusts of briny wind echoed mournfully through the room, tugging at sheets of paper.

The news was not pleasant: The invading German armies had been steadily sweeping down the country, and were at this moment, not far away from the little village at all. Suddenly consumed by a fiery rage, LaRue banged his fist on the table, upsetting a clay bowl of cold porridge. He wiped his hand across his lips, cursing whatever gods may be for his predicament.

-x-

The next afternoon was a sunny one, and Clarisse LaRue had one of her father's pistols in her hand. Eyes screwed up a little to see clearer, she aimed at a nick in a gnarled tree and shot. Her father had taught her how to shoot a year ago and she desperately wanted to be good at it. With a triumphant smile, she noticed that this time the bullet had slid cleanly into its target.

"Stop wasting my bullets!" an angry voice from behind her boomed, and she whipped around. Her father was walking towards her, a pipe set between his teeth.

Clarisse shrugged too nonchalantly and tossed the pistol at him; he deftly caught it.

"Any news on the Germans?" she asked eagerly and he shrugged.

"They're coming. That's pretty much it." LaRue noticed the precise nick in the tree and for a moment he wanted to give his daughter a word of praise. He was however, not used to that, so he managed to refrain from saying anything.

Realising that their meagre conversation had reached its end, he pocketed the gun and walked back into the house.

-x-

When the soldiers came, Clarisse was skipping school for the third time that week (it was a Wednesday, so she hadn't gone at all). She was sitting idly in the grove next to the Church, carving patterns into the trees with a knife she'd gotten from the kitchen.

The Church was undoubtedly the pride of Perdue Ciel, carved entirely out of blackish-grey stone. Twisted demons and writhing gargoyles cowered under delicate etchings of Saints and the Seraphs, whose engraved eyes stared heavenwards. There was a tower atop the building, filled with a cluttering of bells; they ranged from the biggest (which in its hollows seemed to hold the very depths of the ocean) to the littlest (as clear and high as Alpine air).

These soldiers were a mixture of French and British, Allied forces being pushed further and further to the shores. Judging from the wounds some of them were sporting, and the general air of weariness that surrounded the group of not more than thirty, Clarisse assumed they'd just been out of a fight.

News travelled fast in a village as small as this little sea-side one, and in minutes at least half of the locals were gathered in the chapel with all manner of food, drink and medicine. Someone was playing a tune on the organs to spruce up the tired spirits.

Clarisse and her father were there as well, even though they were too rough to be healing, and of a disposition that was too callous for light small-talk.

A soldier with blonde hair and a scar on his lip was well enough to stand and talk. He came to sit on the pews by LaRue, the speckled lights from the stained glass windows making kaleidoscopes on his arms.

"Got a lighter?" he asked in choppy French, holding out a shrivelled cylinder.

LaRue grunted as he took out one, "Got a lighter, _sir_?" he corrected gruffly as he lit up the end of the cig; it glowed bright amber before petering away in the cool darkness of the chapel. "What the hell do they teach soldiers about manners these days, eh?"

"Sorry sir." The boy muttered, abashed, as he took a drag. "Thanks."

"So, what's the plan? How far off are the Germans?"

The boy frowned. "We last saw them yesterday morning… We're on our way to Dunkirk." He hesitated, "The battle's… well, it's lost, frankly speaking." Here, Clarisse jerked her head up sharply. "Them in high-ups have planned to evacuate our lot tomorrow night; that's why we're going to Dunkirk."

Clarisse glared at him. "You're running away?"

"I'm just following orders!" he protested. "Besides, what more can we do, there're not many of us left. Who's going to fight if we're all gone?"

Clarisse made to retort but her father silenced her with a look. Turning to the boy, he added brusquely, "My daughter doesn't understand enough of military strategy."

Clarisse blushed. "Whatever." She muttered angrily, stalking off to another bunch of smoking soldiers.

"You'll be ready to continue tomorrow?" LaRue asked, ignoring the outburst (perhaps he had been too harsh).

The boy nodded. "That's the plan."

"I'll be leading you. Don't protest, I led a division back in the Great War, I'm more than capable. Besides, what you need is a local to bring you down, even if it's only half an hour off by foot. You'll screw things up, I bet." He clapped the boy on the shoulder a little too firmly and got up to talk to his superiors.

-x-

"I want to go too!" Clarisse said angrily as her father stood in the doorway of the house. She could smell fried fish wafting in from the neighbour's and the brightening sun scratched at her eyes.

LaRue pulled on his boots. "Stay here and, hell I don't know, cook lunch or something. Don't fuss, Clarisse." He stood up and walked towards where the soldiers were clustered in the square, looking better from a good night's rest and a decent meal.

Clarisse stood there for a minute, her brain racing furiously. No way was she going to be left behind when something like this was happening. She looked closely at the soldier's uniforms, picking out the colours. Her father had shirts and slacks in those exact colours, she knew. And he had a helmet as well; like the snaking scars on his arm, it was a souvenir from the Great War, the war to end all wars… They were wrong, apparently.

Clarisse rushed back into the house.

"Like hell _I'll _be the one cooking." She muttered.

-x-

The blonde boy who'd offed a cigarette was making up the back of the line when the soldiers departed. He did not notice the new addition to the crew until about five minutes into the walk. The weather was nice and pleasant.

He caught sight of a figure behind him, slightly shorter and less stocky than the rest. His helmet seemed to be set a little too strangely and his uniform…

Well that wasn't a He.

Realising that she'd been recognised, Clarisse grabbed his arm. "Don't you dare say a word," she hissed, "I just want to walk along."

"What on earth for?" he whispered back.

"This is where the action is, and I am _not_ going to miss it." She said as if that settled the matter. "Now you can turn around and pretend you never saw me, punk."

"But I did see you." He replied uncertainly as they marched along, walking past rolling dunes of sand with long, soft tufts of grass poking out of them.

"God, no one cares! It's just a walk to Dunkirk."

A part of him wanted desperately to tell, not out of snitching, but just because this wasn't properly aligned with the Rules. But the girl was looking at him eagerly and angrily, and he knew how it felt to want to be a part of the action, that was why he had signed up early. He also reckoned that between the thirty of them, and the nice weather, and the fact that Dunkirk was only twenty minutes away now, it would be fine for her.

"I'm Jason." He said.

"Good for you."

That pretty much ended all conversation.

-x-

The beach was just ten minutes away from them, they could see the sun-sparkling sea and feel the salty air on their lips. It was evening, and a crescent of silver-milk moon had risen.

While the scenery was pretty enough, everything else wasn't. The beaches were being torn apart by fighting, little boats bobbing furiously in the ocean. Other soldiers had already reached, accompanied by German soldiers, and the battle had begun in earnest. Jason turned back to find the girl and possibly get her out, but she seemed to have disappeared. He cursed himself and grabbed his weapon, ready to charge into battle with the rest of his comrades, but a furious burst of gunfire from behind him caught him off guard.

In minutes, his troop was surrounded by a gathering of German soldiers and his vision swarmed with blood and bits and bullets.

Clarisse, meanwhile, had grabbed a long, lethal looking stick off the sand and was walloping everything within reach. She felt the fight in her bones as the cacophony of battle echoed in her ears. The sky had turned stormy and the waves had started to crash wildly. It was all a sudden blur, but through sheer luck and technique (when she was younger her father had taught her well; how to fight like a boy, or so he claimed) she was making her way through it.

And then she was next to her father and his eyes were wide with fear for the first time that day; he was used to battle, LaRue was used to this and  
death was _nothing_ to him, but his daughter was at risk-

"What the hell are you doing here?" he barked as she narrowly avoided a falling body.

"What the hell does it look like I'm doing?" she responded in kind. LaRue groaned and passed her one of his spare guns which she took gratefully.

"I told you to stay-"

He was cut off a vivid burst of bullets; they tore into his skin and he fell towards his side, wincing at the onslaught of pain.

"Papa!" Clarisse hadn't used that expression in years, opting for the colder, more grown-up 'father'.

She knelt beside him as the fight raged on around them, the wind howling in their ears as men screamed and fell. There was death that night, and so much of it. "Are you alright?"

"Are…" he managed to sputter, "are you stupid?" It wasn't mean spirit or spite, it was just his way.

Clarisse had tears in her eyes and she felt so hollow and afraid. She was nothing, nothing more than a little girl thinking herself more than she was.

Her father was dying.

"You're going to be fine." She protested, her hands hovering over the spots where the bullets had dug into his flesh.

"Clarisse," LaRue said brusquely, but no unkindly; he didn't feel like being aloof now, "I'm not." Regret at his distance and coldness filled him now even as he battled with the burning in his sides.

"You are!" Clarisse said, "You are!"

LaRue realised something there and then. His daughter was a warrior, and he was proud of her. He had always been, in fact, even though he lacked the means to show it.

"Go back," he choked, "Fight." He reached up a hand to smoothen her hair but the light in his eyes dimmed before he could make it. His hand fell limply into the sand.

Clarisse watched in horror as her father died before her eyes. Filled with a sudden glint of anger, she took the gun and stood up. There was no giving up, that was not the way of the LaRues. She was still alive and she was still going to fight.

-x-

It could have minutes, it could have been hours, but no matter how hard and fiercely they fought, the Germans were surrounding them. The Allied forces were being pushed further and further towards the sea.

Jason saw a slice of red dart past him- it was the girl- and he turned to meet her. Her eyes were blazing and she was cutting through the fray with a primal grace. All around him men were falling, staining the sand with red.

"Get over here!" He could hear the voices of his country-men from the boats, civilians who had braved the storms of the English Channel to rescue their men.

"Go!" It was Clarisse, her hair spiralling around her as the wind screamed through it. "This is what you came for isn't it, go! I'll keep them!"

He looked backwards towards the boat, this was a gaily painted trawler, the _Mary Susanne. _He saw that soldiers were rushing towards it.

"Where's your father?" he shouted back as she aimed her gun at into the thick fray.

"He's dead!" Her voice was hard.

"Do you have any relatives?"

"For God's sake, no! Just get the hell out of here!"

He hesitated, two metres away from the trawler. "Come with us, then!" It was nothing more than a soldier stretching a helping hand towards a civilian. Clarisse stared at him disbelievingly.

"You have nothing left!" he tried again. A bomb went off somewhere in the dunes, lighting up the night with its fiery glow.

He could see tear tracks on her face; she was tempted, sorely tempted.

Clarisse hesitated, the gun smooth in her hands. There was a spit of ocean, a stretch of sand and a deep navy sky. The stars were out, the moon was still silver-milk. She realised the soldier was wrong. She did have something left.

It could have been something as small as the scent of fried fish on early mornings, or the glorious and triumphant chorus of the church bells on a dusty Sunday evening. It could have been something as big as her fighting the enemy to protect her home, to ensure that others could make to safety. Her father had died with the fight still in him, and that fight was in her bones, in her skin. She could never leave it. Perdue Ciel was her home, France was her home, and she would not leave. The soldier had no debt to pay, he was simply retreating and would one day return, but Clarisse could never- would _never_- leave.

She would stay and she would fight because there was no way in hell was she running.

"I'm staying." She said.

Recognising the fact, the soldier nodded. "_Bon courage_?"

"_Bon courage._"

It was French for good luck. Curious, how the word courage is in that expression, as if it is agreed universally that fortune favours the brave; or maybe it means that the brave forge their own luck. Either way, Clarisse was determined that if she died then, she would die alive.

And if she did not, if she made it back to Perdue Ciel, by which time the Nazis would have no doubt taken France into their grip, she would make sure she would give them hell.

She was Clarisse LaRue, and she was the fight personified.


	5. I woke up cold like winter frost

1940

Contrary to popular opinion upon first impression, Annabeth Chase was _not_ five years old. In actuality, she was seven, though she was small for her age. In fact, her birthday had come and gone just a week ago; they'd had cake from the shops in the tiny London flat she used to stay in with her parents.

"Used to" because she stayed there no longer. In wake of the War, the Government had decided to evacuate all the kids from the cities and towns to the countryside, where the bombs did not target. Annabeth's school (this was done in groups) was a little late; she had already experienced at least three bomb raids.

In any case she was now waiting at the train station to be picked up by her hosts. It was a little pathetic, actually; nothing more than a wooden platform with rickety steps overlooking crackly, gravel-engraved train tracks and endless rolling green hills. A town mouse all her life, Annabeth had never seen that much green and she worried that she had stepped off an entirely different planet as opposed to just somewhere off in the country.

There was someone else on the platform, a little boy about her age with a neatly pressed suit and a vaguely _foreign _looking face. She figured he was waiting for someone as well.

After a few minutes of absolute boredom, Annabeth went over to him. "What's your name, then?" she demanded and the boy started. When it took a few seconds longer than she would've liked to respond, she peered at the block letters on his tag.

"Mal-colm Le-vin is that it?" she asked, drawing out the syllables. He nodded meekly. "Who are you waiting for?"

"My hosts," he said uncertainly (he looked like the type that carried a folded hanky in his coat pocket wherever he went) in an accent she couldn't quite place.

"Who are your hosts?" She asked with a touch of childish exasperation.

He shrugged and mumbled, "The Winchesters." It was slightly a toff name for country-goers, she'd imagined a barn house with cows and the like of which she'd only ever seen in picture books that the other children left over; she'd been the only one who delighted in reading.

"I'm waiting for the Winchesters too! "She said and he nodded weakly. Annabeth sighed and sat down on the platform with the sun in her hair, waiting for the Winchesters to pick them up.

-x-

As it turned out, the Winchesters were hardly farming folk. They lived in an ornate hulking mansion with an iron-wrought gate that sort of sat awkwardly in a spot between the golden-green orchards. In fact it had been a _butler _who'd greeted them at the station and drove them (in an actual car, no less) to the house.

The two got out and were huddled through a carved door into a marble foyer, where a rather grandiose lady of about forty was waiting to meet them. She was dressed in puffy pink silk.

"Darlings!" she said when they entered and rushed to engulf them into the folds of her dress, which smelled oddly enough, of tinned peaches. "Look, you lot are so precious!" She pinched Malcolm's rather pale cheek and ruffled Annabeth's curls. "I am Mrs Winchester, but you may call me Auntie."

"Hello Auntie," Annabeth mumbled and Malcolm inclined his head.

The lady clapped her hands together, addressing Malcolm, "You're the love whose previous hosts had to give you up because they couldn't afford it, yes?"- Here he blushed, nodding- "The one from Germany?"

Here Annabeth yelped, pointing at him, 'He's a Jerry? How come no one told me? I'm not living with a jerry, miss!"

"I'm not a jerry!" Malcolm protested, tripping over his words a little bit in the way foreigners sometimes do, "I am not!"

"Oh, stop arguing, loves!" Mrs Winchester murmured worryingly, fanning her face, "Annabeth, sweetheart, Malcolm is no more a jerry than you are; in fact he had to leave Germany because it was dangerous for him!"

"Why was it dangerous?" Annabeth asked suspiciously.

"Because I was a Jew!" Malcolm responded, somewhat hotly.

"Where are your parents, then?" Annabeth asked suspiciously.

He avoided looking at her, focusing on the spiralling staircase and the carvings of cherubs over a huge fireplace. "I don't know. My parents' friends sent me a letter when I first came. The Nazis took them away. I could not read English then."

This announcement brought another round of "Poor dears!" and embracing from Mrs Winchester and Annabeth bit her lip, mumbling a hasty apology.

Deeming them too grubby for her taste, Mrs Winchester ruffled them up those steps and into their new rooms, which overlooked the bumpy tops of the sun-drenched trees; she called the rooms 'parlours'.

-x-

Malcolm's room was just next to Annabeth's. They had had a "scrumptious" dinner which included a whole host of food: various salads (that none touched except Mrs Winchester), lots of roast and chicken (which the other two gobbled and were chastised for having bad manners) and at least four types of pudding (everyone had them).

Despite the wonderful meal and the soft pyjama set- "silk, sweetheart"- that Mrs Winchester had laid out for her, Annabeth was feeling sick. She missed her parents very much and could not shake the strange feeling that she'd been _abandoned_ by them. She missed the noisy row of the London streets and the narrow grey of the city. She was worried that there were going to be lots of spiders here- after all wasn't' the country where they had most beasts? - And she was just feeling very unsettled. She had a ragged teddy bear named Poffy that she'd brought from home, with one button-eye loose, and she hugged it to comfort herself.

As she was finally about to drift to sleep, a strange noise scratched her awake and she hugged Poffy. She thought of the ghost stories the older lads would scare the younger children with. The noise did not stop and she was becoming very afraid. Finally, still clutching Poffy, she got out of bed to find the source of the noise; it was a mixture of her not wanting to be cowardly and an innate curiousity.

After finding nothing in her room despite the continuing noise- and nothing outside the window- she walked over to Malcolm's and jumped on the bed.

"_Hilfe_!" he yelped in German as he jolted awake to see Annabeth staring at him. "What!" he shouted, "Why do you do this?"

The noise could be heard from his room as well and Annabeth said in a low voice, "Do you hear that… hoo-hooing thing?"

"Yes." He mumbled sullenly, slightly glad to have been awoken; he had been having one of those nightmares again- "I hear that hoo-hooing thing."

"What is it?" she demanded.

He raised his eyebrows at her stupidity. "It is an owl, how do you not know this?"

Annabeth blushed at the notion of being thought of as an idiot. "I've never heard an owl before, and we never learnt in school that they made sounds!"

"You are not smart." Malcolm said with a touch of finality, "Now I would like to sleep. Goodbye."

Annabeth glared at him and went back to her room.

They both had nightmares that night.

-x-

The next night, Annabeth was woken from a dream of bombs exploding into a shower of spiders that crept into her mother's room and ate her by the owl again.

Angry, she went over to Malcolm's. The boy was awake this time, staring out of the window.

"Oi!" He turned around and sighed when he saw Annabeth, who squinted. "Have you been crying?"

"No." he said staunchly, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Can you not mind your own business?" realising the torch in her hand, he continued, "What is it now?"

"We are going to find the owl."

"Out there, in the darkness?"

"Out there in the lovely sunshine, you idiot!"

He glared at her, "But we're not allowed-"

"Oh, Auntie's in bed, anyway. Come on!"

"What are we going to do when we find it, anyway?" He protested.

"I just want to see it, I'll be home very soon and I want to see a country bird before I leave."

Malcolm frowned. "I don't think you'll be home soon, my old host told me that it would take a while for kids to be sent home."

"I will be home very soon." Annabeth said again. "Back to my mum and dad with Poffy."

She grabbed his wrist and dragged them out into the night.

-x-

The night was a bit chill, the lurking trees with their twisting trunks looking menacing. The hooting seemed to be coming from somewhere to their right so they followed it, still on the outskirts of the forest. Malcolm was muttering little bits of caution but Annabeth was ignoring him.

"There it is!" she muttered, shining the yellow beam onto the trees- the veins of the leaves stood in crisp clarity in the sudden light. A ruffle of feathers and agonised hooting told them the owl had left, its whiteness blurring through the dark as it flew away to peace.

"You've seen it." Malcolm said, "Let's go back!"

Annabeth frowned, she'd been hoping for a more substantial glimpse but she nodded in agreement. They were crossing back through the trees when they heard a different sound; a scraping whirring from the sky. They turned their heads up to the heavens and they saw a little plane tumbling through the boundless night. They both ran out of the forest as quickly as they could as the plane crashed into the forest, sending up spurts and dancing ribbons of fiery colours into the dark sky.

"German plane. I saw the wings. German plane." Malcolm had gone very titchy and paler than usual. Lights had gone on in the mansion and soon enough the butler, was rushing out. Annabeth and Malcolm, who were in essence still children trying to avoid trouble, hid behind the trees.

Annabeth then dragged Malcolm along through the trees, shadowing the butler's footsteps.

What they saw was a mangled wreck of smoking metal and charred earth, and sort of stuck between the lower branches of an old oak was a pilot with blood streaming down his side.

The butler looked slightly repulsed. "Trying to let go of some bombs, eh?" He asked.

The pilot shook his head and began to stammer in German, his words rushing over one each other and causing his sentence to trip.

The butler shrugged helplessly, "I'm going to go get help- I don't think you can escape, what are you even saying?"

Before Annabeth could stop him, Malcolm had rushed forwards, his little hands tugging on the butler's jacket. "Please, sir, I understand."

"What in blazes are you two-" Annabeth had appeared as well- "doing out at this time of the night?"

Malcolm shook his head. "He says that he was never carrying bombs. He was just a spy. He is telling you this because he knows he is going to die." The pilot was crying, shiny tear tracks tracing down his soot-smudged face. Underneath his straw coloured hair, he looked very young. Nineteen at most, they supposed.

The pilot spoke again in German and Malcolm replied.

"What does he say?" Annabeth asked curiously.

"He asked if I was German. I said yes. He asked me what I was doing here. I said his people made me leave my family. I told him I don't know where my parents are, or my brother, or my grandfather."

The pilot's had begun to shake even harder, the blood slowly trickling down his skin.

"_Entschuldigungen._" the pilot whispered. Malcolm had gone over to the tree, taking off his small jacket. He gently placed it over the wound.

"What did he say?" The butler asked.

"I'm sorry." Malcolm said simply. The young boy looked at the older one and said something else in German. The pilot gave a weary laugh and nodded. His head drooped forward silently, and he was gone.

Annabeth looked at Malcolm who shrugged. "I said to him that Germany must be very nice this time of year. It's spring, after all."

"Come on," the butler said after a while, putting a hand on the children's shoulders. "I'll bring you back to the house and I'll get the town police down here."

They walked out of the forest, leaving behind the broken plane and the boy-pilot, the moon casting her liquid-silver glow down their backs.


	6. My mother, she was gone

Will Solace, all of seventeen, watched, a guitar in his arms, as the usual transfer of patrolling Nazis made the switch on the end of the street. They had been here since the occupation began in 1940, and for the most part, the mood had been cordial and cold, as if they were skittering on thin ice—but that was just how it went, they were still afloat, not yet descended. 1943, however, was bringing about a different mood; he could feel it even then, something bubbling just underneath that hard surface of crusted stars, something waiting to burst out of the river.

Will sighed and ran down the steps. His guitar was slung across his back as he dashed out into the pale early morning sun. He waited near the end of the street—by a florist's, where delicate roses stood alongside vibrant tiger lilies, wrapped lovingly in cellophane or spilling out of rusting tin buckets—for his friend Michael, who he usually went off to school with. As he waited, something caught his eye; a harsh red V dashed a wall opposite him. It was the symbol of victory, painted no doubt, by the hands of the newly active Resistance group that he had heard about from his mother's radio, and it made him grin.

"What the hell are you happy about?" Michael asked, his hair blowing back in the breeze as he appeared. Will pointed at the V and Michael gave a chuckle, his eyebrows rising. "The bastards must be pissed about this." He finished smugly.

Will nodded. "They didn't seem at all happy from what I saw just now."

Michael's eyes sparked in mischief, "Hey, hand me the guitar, yeah?"

Will raised his eyebrows but removed the instrument and Michael grabbed it—_can you not just do that to her?—_and began to strum familiar notes that he had not heard in years.

"The anthem?" Will asked, torn between wanting to chortle and wanting to stop his friend. But Michael was already strumming the first few notes, his lips pursed with the agony of trying not to laugh, so Will pitched in, singing the first words.

_Der er et yndigt land_

_det står med brede bøge_

_nær salten østerstrand _

_Det bugter sig i bakke, dal_

_det hedder gamle Danmar_

_kog det er Frejas sal_

There is a lovely land

with spreading, shady beeches

Near salty eastern beach

Its hills and valleys gently fall

its ancient name is Denmark

And it is Freya's hall

"OI!" An angry burst of German followed from around the corner. Will grabbed the guitar from Michael, and still laughing, they sped down the street.

-x-

When they finished school, a wrapped pastry in their fingers, they could sense something amiss about the atmosphere; the cobwebs that Will had felt skating around the ice seemed to be running deeper. They passed the synagogue on their way to Will's house and they saw the rabbi standing outside, his withered face crumpled in despair. Will nudged Michael who shrugged in confusion. The old man went back inside the building.

Will bade goodbye to Michael and went up the narrow steps that led to his flat. His mother, Ms Sorenson—she had refused, eventually, to take his father's name when the man had left her without preamble to go back to his home country, Britain—was sitting at the table again, fiddling with the radio.

"You've got to be careful with that," Will cautioned, putting down one of the pastries in front of her. "The Nazis seemed to be extra pissed off today; have you heard about the V down the—"

"Yes," she said, "But something's happened." Her voice was tight and Will stiffened.

"Yeah?"

"You know how they've left us mostly alone?" She asked, peeling the wrapper off the pastry and sliding it onto a plate, "We're not so lucky anymore." The butter knife sliced cleanly through the crust, flakes falling onto the plate "They're coming for the Jews, Will."

"What—take them away to the East?" The boy asked, frowning in disbelief. "That can't happen here, will it? We won't let it happen—"

His mother sighed, offering the plate to him; he declined. "Who knows what will happen?"

Will bit his lip, troubled, "No wonder the Rabbi just now…" He tried for a smile at his mother, "I'm going off to meet Michael."

"Be home in time for curfew."

"Of course." He said, already to the door.

-x-

They were sitting on the bridge that tapered off the end of the little town, about a ten minute walk from the last building; it led off into the growling forest, the trees the deepest shade of emerald that seemed to embrace black.

"It's not going to happen," Michael said confidently, tossing a gnarled twig into the river and watching it get rushed up by the twinkling water. "You worry way too much."

"Sorry!" Will put his hands up in mock surrender, "But it's just that… anything can happen, y'know?" He paused, uncertain, "You're the one who should be worried."

"Not here, not in Denmark." The piece of wood had appeared on the other side of the bridge, the currents drawing it downstream and eventually, to the sea.

"Not in Demark." Will mimicked, and Michael glared at him.

-x-

Michael and Will were reaching Will's place when they saw Ms Sorenson, the ends of her nightgown flapping in the wind, a look of worry plastered on her face.

"Thank God." She said when Will approached and grabbed his arm. "I was hoping Michael would be with you; get on up to the house, the both of you."

"I've got to get back to my family, miss—" Michael began but Will's mother cut him off.

"They're all up here." She said urgently, "Quickly now." Michael looked at Will, who shrugged.

They all ascended the staircase, feeling the clammy grip of dread and confusion settle over them. The narrow and steep steps were shrouded in evening darkness. Ms Sorenson pushed the door open and led them into the tiny living room.

"When you were out," she began, striding over to the one rectangular, slim window—the only source of soft deep blue light in the whole dark room—and peering out. "We decided to take in some of the Jewish families, to hide them. We're doing it in shifts so that the Nazis won't be so suspicious." She crossed over to where Michael was standing, looking both enraged and sick. "You're family's with us, in the storeroom. Hurry now, Will and I will push a bookcase over the door so they won't see."

Michael and Will exchanged a glance and Michael walked over to the tiny door. Crouched together within the room was his family- his mother greeted him with a hug and his two twin sisters clamoured in joy.

"Thank you," Mrs Yew said, an arm of Michael's shoulder.

"Don't mention it." Ms Sorenson said, "You would have done exactly the same. Now we have to move—"

"Of course."

She shut the door behind her and looked at Will, who went over to the bookcase and started pushing it over the door. They moved it into place until the door could no longer be seen.

Will, the news finally beginning to settle in, asked, "How long…"

"A resistance group is coming to the forest in two days to help them escape to Sweden." His mother said and a barrage of coughs erupted out of the door, slightly muffled. "One of the girls is having a bit of a cough."

Will nodded, both frightened and exhilarated, and grabbed his guitar and began to strum a few chords to dissipate the tense silence. His mother sat at the table, plucking at a bit of leftover pastry.

Presently, a knock at the door jolted them and Ms Sorenson paled and made her way to get it. "I'll do it." Will offered and opened the door to face two impassive looking Nazis.

"Good evening," his mother said, coming to stand by him, "Isn't it a bit late to come calling?"

"Routine check-up." One of them said, smiling apologetically; a polished name tag on his coat read _Memner_.

They swept into the kitchen and despite everything, Will had to bite down a laugh that threatened to escape him when Memner began to inspect the pastry.

"What are you looking for?" He asked innocently, which was, of course, the best way to assure others that you were anything but innocent.

Memner, now on to the living room, refused to answer, saying instead, "Do you have any idea of the whereabouts about your neighbours, the Yews?"

Ms Sorenson shrugged delicately, "They might be asleep."

Memner gave a wry laugh and went to the direction of the storeroom. Remembering the coughing bout that Michael's sister had, Will hurriedly picked up the guitar once again and went in with the officers, playing a reedy tune. The officer cast him an irritated look but he persisted. He and his mother watched with bated breath as Memner put a hand to the bookcase, pressing his calloused fingers slightly against the gnarled wood. The room itself seemed to heave with terrified silence until the officer removed his hand and nodded to the other.

"Thank you for your time, Ms Sorenson," he said politely, "We are sorry to intrude. May the remainder of your evening be pleasant."

His mother smiled and held the door open for them, "Anytime, officer. Glad to be of service."

The door was shut and mother and son looked at each other in relief, the gauzy curtains fluttering with the breeze.

-x-

All the Jewish families in the tiny town, much to the anger of the occupying powers, had gone into hiding. The town had rallied behind them, taking the threat to them personally, collectively. Finally the day came to get them to the forest, where little boats would be waiting to ferry them to neutral Sweden, to safety. They would be going in shifts through the night.

Michael's family, the last shift, was being brought by Will and another girl, Kayla—a member of the resistance prior to this—to the forest.

"Keep silent." The girl said warned as reached the end of the town, beginning to cross the bridge. "You're the last group and we don't want to ruin anything."

Michael opened his mouth to retort but a glance from his mother silenced him. He settled on making gestures behind Kayla's back.

The bridge was lit up by a gentle slice from the yellowish crescent moon, the water slowly undulating as gracefully as court dancers.

Michael and Will were making up the rear of the group, glancing behind them at short intervals to make sure they weren't being followed. Halfway across the bridge, just as they were beginning to feel relieved, angry shouts and the barking of dogs shocked them into the realisation that they _were _being followed; Memner was amongst the Nazis who had approached, harsh slats of light from torches lighting up their faces.

"Hurry!" Kayla commanded as she helped one of Michael's sisters across the bridge. "Don't just _fucking _stand there!" She commanded to the two boys, "Hurry!"

"Let's go!" Will said but Michael stood there, indecisive. The dogs had been left behind, but the soldiers had come onto the bridge, their boots clacking noisily against the stone.

"They'll follow us!" Michael said urgently, "They'll get my family; and they won't be the only ones waiting for the boat to Sweden. We'll be putting a whole bunch of people in danger!"

"Stop there, Jewish scum!" They heard Memner shout; Memner, Memner who could only see Michael in his fury, Memner who had politely apologised to Will's mother for interrupting their night-time silence. His face was alive with hatred. The man would blame this escapade on the Jews, and the Jews alone.

"Michael!" Mrs Yew shouted, an arm draped over her daughters, "Michael, Will, hurry up!"

Michael put a hand to his pocket, pulling out what Will knew to be a bomb.

"Where the hell did you—"

"I stole it off Kayla." He said, his voice determined, "Get out, I'm going to blow up this bridge, it will give you time." He fiddled with the thing, the guards coming closer and closer-

"Shit." Michael said, his voice soft, "I'll have to be here when it activates… It's one of _those_…"

Understanding fell over Will like a blanket of sleet, "No." He said, shaking his head, the shouting coming closer. "I'm not going to let you."

"Like hell I ever needed your permission, Solace," Michael said, his voice set, only slightly choked. "Now get on with it!" He finished, and rushed at Will, heaving him off the bridge. Will dangled, at the edge, one hand clutching the railing, but Michael, his eyes shining and glazed, prised his fingers off, "We know how to swim, remember? My father taught us, before—"

"Michael, don't."

"I have to." The boy whispered, and Will made to reply—

But then he fell into the cool embrace of the water, his head spinning. He paddled furiously to get to the surface, ribbons of bubbles billowing around him. He pulled himself up to the banks just as the bridge exploded behind him, lighting up the night in fierce breaths of kaleidoscopic yellows and oranges. He shifted quickly to avoid a chunk of burning marble. His head felt like it was exploding too, his mind echoing with a tirade of _no no no no no no no please please no._

He still clung to a vague hope, but Michael had been at the heart of the blast, there would have been no way.

And then Kayla, her face shocked, was pulling him up from the ground, his clothes sticking to him. He heard Mrs Yew's hollow gasps of contained grief and disbelief.

"He—he sacrificed himself for us." Will said, still unbelieving, "We have to go. Let's—let's go." The spiralling in his skull had stopped, replaced by a numbness of knowledge. Everything was pristinely, brilliantly clear.

He grabbed the hand of one of Michael's sisters, who was very silent, and pulled her along, keeping the pain bubbling in his ribcage contained because he knew that he had to do this, to keep be strong enough to reign in the grief, so that Michael's death would have not been for nothing.

Leaving the smoking bridge and marble shards behind them, they ran into the cool embrace of the forest; twigs and stones creaked underneath their feet, the crackly noise making up for the deep quiet. Behind him, Mrs Yew was supporting one of her daughters and he knew that she was keeping herself intact for their sake. There was nothing behind them but the ghost of silence; Michael had been right in saying that it would take them much time to recover.

Finally, the edge of the trees crumbled off into grainy rock that met a silvery expanse of water. A boat, with a lamp of fluorescent white light shimmering underneath of layer of fog at its head, was waiting for them. A man was waiting there as well.

"Thought you said there'd be five?" He asked Kayla, who shook her head mournfully.

"We… we lost one."

Will bent to hug Mrs Yew, her arms tight. "Thank you." She said as she let go. "And tell your mother thank you."

"It was Michael," he said staunchly, the lapping of water against the pebbles calming him. "It was Michael."

"We have a saying in Hebrew, used in mourning," the lady said as she embraced Kayla, her daughters already on board the vessel, "translated it is, 'tell me what your loved one was really like'. Not the end, but the beginning; not the death, but the life." She smiled, her lips twisted with both the bitter and the sweet. "We will return, hopefully." She brushed the tears that were beginning to pool out of Will's eyes—that despite his hardest effort he could not keep back—even though her own eyes were wet, because she was above all, Mother.

She got on the boat a well, swaying a little with the rocking motion.

Will and Kayla held up a hand to bid them goodbye and they watched as the boat drifted, slowly at first, and then picking up speed, towards the wide river where safety would greet them on the other side. There would be no persecution, no danger. It was what Michael would have wanted.

They watched the blinking white light fade into the heavy fog before they turned back to the Danish forest, still mist-clutched and cold. They entered, silently like the elves of the old stories, pine needles brushing gently against their cheeks.


	7. My head was dry, my eyes were lost

Below them lay the jungles of Borneo: a clump and flurry of mottled green, snaking brown rivers carving a path for themselves amongst the trees. Above them was clear, white sky. It had stopped raining—that delicious, consuming, grip-your-bones tropical rain that either made humid vapours rise off the soil or soaked you in cold blankets—about twenty minutes ago and there was a still a trace of the downpour: a strip of pale grey clouds lain across the white.

The helicopter that Charlie was on was making its way towards Sumatra, Indonesia, and there were five people on board; they were weary and bug-eyed, shivering slightly from the cold, clear air. Charlie was at the controls, focused even as the rest of the men were exchanging the lone sparse joke, or redundant comment on the weather.

"Can't wait for this damn war to be over," said Jake Mason, bleary-eyed and slightly pale, "Hate this goddamned _jungle _weather."

"He's still pissed because of the leeches!" Someone snickered.

"You'd be pissed too if you found three of the bastards—fat as hell—sucking on your back!"

Charlie winced, remembering; he'd had his own experiences with the Southeast Asian fauna that plagued him on his duty too, and leeches were definitely the worst. He remembered them well, bulbous and slimy as they sucked the blood out of you. Remove with salt, or with the flickering orange of a match. Don't pull them out just like that; else their teeth remain in your skin. He shivered.

"You cold, Beckendorf?" Jake yelled over the whirring of the helicopter blades as they whipped the air around them. "Wish your girlfriend was here to warm you up?" The boys snickered and Charlie grinned a little bit—it was all good-natured teasing; childish, simple fun to take your mind away from bigger things.

This was after all, still the forties, a time where things like race were still treated with thick markers drawing lines down the board; a division both simple and clean in its superficiality. Silena's father had owned the chocolate shop where Charlie worked as a packer, carrying the thick crates back and forth. The little treats would be displayed in glass cabinets; shimmering, glazed globes and triangles, filled with coconut, strawberry or treacle. Beauregard was very much a name of European ancestry, unlike Charlie whose forefathers... well, they hadn't exactly come off the ships willingly. Maybe that would have afforded a problem with someone else's father, in another town, but not with Mr Beauregard. The man had been eternally cheerful about just about anything and he didn't begrudge his daughter—though some of the others did, in low, scandalised voices—spending time with the boy.

"Beckendorf?" the voice came again, "Beckendorf?"

"Trying to keep my eyes out, Mason; I've got no time for your whining here."

"Don't you feel something funny?" The boy hissed, "Something not quite right?"

"What?" Another one asked, flicking his fingers at a bundle of rolled-up tarp in the corner. He made his voice low and spooky, copying the fortune-tellers in their painted tents that he had seen from the fairs of his childhood (the boardwalks had been salty and slippery; gulls had cawed mournfully as the Ferris wheel continued its slow dance). "A premonition?"

"Laugh all you want," Jake muttered, "But something's not right. I can feel it."

A soldier's superstition was not an uncommon thing and like all superstitions, it had its merits and downfalls—sometimes it was right, and you dodged that bullet just because your mate had told you to turn at the right moment; sometimes it was wrong, and you were caught in a trap that you thought you had the wherewithal to avoid—but there was no purpose to Jake's words, anyhow. They were still cutting their way through the skies and there was nothing to be done, either way.

A flash of lighting, harsh and blinding blue, divided the clouds in half, followed closely by God rumbling, that heavy and discordant rolling of thunder.

"It's getting shaky." Jake said again, and his words—this time with an obvious hint of the truth—were met with the troop shouting him down.

"It'll be fine," Charlie said; his voice was its usual soothing self; low and reassuring. "Just a spot of bad weather, nothing unusual for this place."

"Goddamned Leeches," Jake mumbled in an undertone, his face pressed against the windows, "Goddamned December."

They were silent for a while. Seeing the fall in his friend's spirits, Charlie decided to spruce them up by calling for some entertainment.

"Tell us a story, boys."

The one who had flicked the tarp and imitated the fortune teller was the one who first spoke. He had a penchant for the dramatic, they all knew.

Before he began, he squinted into the far distance; ranging the low and lush hills which were cackling with greenery, was a rainbow. "Hey don't the locals have some sort of superstition about that? Aren't low rainbows like bad luck or something?"

"Superstitions are stupid no matter the culture." One of the others scoffed. Jake scowled at all of them.

"Anyway," the boy continued, "I'm pretty sure you've all heard this before, but what the hell. So you know that mountain, Kinabalu or whatsit? The one we settled around for a bit? Anyway the locals have this thing about it—they say their dead go there."

"To do what, look at the scenery?"

Charlie rolled his eyes.

"No. It's like their resting place. All the spirits congregate up there. Pretty place, I think. All hanging with clouds, cold… that kind of thing. And bunched with forests as well—jungles you could get lost in even after walking in it for mere minutes—you know the type. Anyway, like I said, you're not supposed to take things off the mountain. No rocks or flowers; maybe some of the locals dropped this pretty piece of cloth that you want to take home to your girlfriend. None of it, no bringing any of it back with you. Cause if you do, the spirits are gonna be pissed and follow you home."

The lightning skewers were increasing with frequency. A soft rain was beginning to sing; pale, ghostly water slices that brushed delicately against the window.

"Right. So this soldier—and it was the chief that told me this, anyway—didn't listen to the old stories. He saw this piece of cloth. Black with gold embroidery, like their clothes, mostly. He thought it would make a nice gift for his girl back home when he returned, so he brought it down with him. Didn't tell no one except the chief, who told him to go put it back. 'Course he didn't listen, stubborn asshole that he was."

A shudder ran through the helicopter and Charlie cursed. It was a momentary tremor, he told himself; they just had to get out of this rain.

"They were gonna face off against this Jap troop days later. Everything was in their favour because the Japs were running low on supplies; their men were tired, outnumbered. Everything was gonna go right for our guys. So our hero—little shmuck—was supposed to be out on patrol that night. And he knew that the attack was coming, so he had some guys stay back a bit, wait for his signal because apart from that, they couldn't see nothing. He was the bait, but he was well-equipped enough to make a good fight of it and survive. So he waits, see, by this slab of rock."

God coughed and the helicopter shifted a little bit to the right. The men looked up, worried.

"I'm going to fly lower," Charlie said, "Just in case; so that we can make good landing if it gets bad."

"Then he sees the bayonets, bright under the moon. He's frightened, but he knows that nothing will go too bad. He makes to move, to warn the guys who were depending on him for lookout. But then he's got the cloth in his hands. The thing flies up to him, draws itself across his mouth. He can't move, can't do nothing. It's a hot night—you know the type—but he feels cold. Then the Japs are on him and none of the rest are any the wiser. He can't do nothing and they stab him: once, twice, blood all over. They swarm over the rest then, and our guys lose."

He paused. "Hero's still alive. Can't die, not yet. Thing's still over his mouth, can't speak, still can't move. Then he sees eyes, you know. White dress, black hair to the waist. Pretty face—what he can see anyway—the Japs have left him now. But this lady, she picks the bayonet up and slices it, clean across his neck and he's gone. So is the cloth, when they find him. Dead as anything. Cold."

The lightning was shuddering through the sky now, flashes pulsating through the air. The rain was much, much heavier.

"You gonna land?" Mason yelled over the chaos.

"Yeah," Charlie replied, "Just need to find a proper spo—"

A rod, silvery and sparkling, struck the tail of the helicopter and a furious blaze sprung out from the tail. Charlie swore, his hand still on the controls.

"Got the parachutes?" He asked, even as he tried to keep the plane steady. Someone responded that the parachutes were all accounted for, by the tarp, which lay heavy and useless.

"You're going to have to make a jump for it!" Charlie shouted, sweat streaming down his face. "There won't be enough time for me to make a landing!"

The heat had turned the air into waves; images shimmered before and behind him. The boys had strapped the parachutes to themselves. The story-teller was the first to jump, followed by the rest; like wraiths they flew through the hot, wet air into the canopy below. At last it was only Jake and Charlie left.

"Pass me a 'chute, Mason!"

"Yeah!"

There was the sound of frantic rustling before he heard his friend swear.

"Shit—I thought there were two. Tarp made it look like—there's only one, man."

Charlie turned around. He saw mushrooms of flame and Jake standing there pathetically, the lone parachute dangling from his fingers.

"Get off." Charlie instructed, his throat tight. "Get the hell off."

"And leave you behind? Fuck you, Beckendorf." Jake thought quickly. "We both jump. Think I saw this in a Nickelodeon once. You use it, cause you're bigger, see. Then um, hold me and stuff, we can both make it off."

Charlie left the controls—putting the thing on autopilot—the helicopter whizzing around, and moved forwards towards Jake, relief at the thought of escape fuelling him.

Just then, a furious gust of wind rattled through the machine, pulling it back into the air. His hand still on the parachute, Jake was blasted through the open door, and out into the wind. A steel fist clenching in his gut, Charlie saw the boy open the parachute and drift slowly into the jungle. He did not begrudge his friend—none of it had been his fault after all—but this meant that he was here, on a flaming helicopter, still too high above the ground to make a safe jump, and alone.

There were two choices for Charlie Beckendorf in that moment, and both would end up in death.

Numbing himself to the fact, Charlie perched on the edge of the door. The flames were nearer now and there was nothing else for it.

He pulled a picture out of his pocket. Silena was caught mid-laugh, her black hair streaming behind her like flags in the wind. Behind her lay a golden cornfield. Something had gone wrong when Charlie had taken the photo and the film paper boasted a light leak: a brilliant orange wash doused the left half of Silena in the photograph, spilling across the sky and the cornfield.

Charlie sighed and put the photograph back into his pocket. With the dignity of one who had not only looked death in the eye, but who had also shaken his hand and come to the realisation that there were worse things, Charlie prepared himself for the inevitable.

He saw first the wild jungle below him. Above him were grey skies.

Charlie took a deep breath, and jumped.


	8. Outside: a winter storm

Drew had always known she was beautiful. Much of it, she suspected, had to do with her hair. Her mother would bring her over to her neighbour's for their weekly gossip sessions and they—they being the Miyakos, the Tamakes, the Imadas—would gather her hair in two separate bundles for each hand and exclaim at the length, at the shine. Mrs Imada, of a poetic slant, would proudly, fervently exclaim that Drew had hair like a "wild ebony waterfall" as she pressed a tortoiseshell comb down on it; as a child, she had not understood, for her hair was always well-kept, it did not spill or tumble, it _flowed_.

In the early days, her mother had made her sit once every two weeks and perform the tea ceremony. The woman had watched, her lips pursed, as Drew poured the tea, tiny brow creased in concentration. Drew had adored those times; she had been fitted with a glorious kimono of rustling silk and she had felt unconquerable in her delicate wrap. When she got older, her mother would brush her skin with rice powder and rogue (to highlight her cheekbones) and taught her about posture. Drew's hair had been doused with a scent that had conjured images of a place she had never been to; of a land of the cherry blossom and the pine.

Her father had been a man of few words but much action. He used to take her fishing as a child. Sitting in their little boat, he would point out which fish were for the eating and which were to be left alone. He had taught her how to properly cast a line and to observe the weather. She had complained—using her mother's words—that the briny air would dry out her hair, that the salt would make creases in her skin. Her father would give his rare, rumbling laugh, and pass her a half a rice ball drenched in soy sauce.

Hawaii had been a land of various cultures and Drew had been proud of her own. She loved the food as well, especially tempura: first crisping in the wok, then slid (still sputtering) onto a piece of tissue for blotting, golden-brown and slightly so.

Her head had been turned by the constant praise of her prettiness, however, and she had developed an outlook on others that was both pompous and aloof. While her nature had been condescending and not helpful to her getting friends (amongst the girls especially, who had been tired of her arrogance; Drew had behaved a bit better with boys, even though many still were wary of her; except her childhood friend Mark Uehara, who knew that she wasn't _all_ bad) one could not say she was heartless. Cold yes, but not as such, ice.

This was still the time when everything was bathed in the tranquillity of lazy island life.

-x-

Drew was out by the beach with Mark; it was just before dinner, the swell and bid of the Pacific running down their ankles as evening descended. Mark, his face tense, asked, "Have you heard, on the radio? My pa had it on. They say that the Japanese army is becoming more of a threat each day."

Drew scoffed, a hand over her eyes to shade herself from the fading sun, "They always say that. They're afraid, that's what it is. Nothing more. Paranoia, that's what it is. You watch."

"Still, I was on Main Street the other day and a bunch of _them_ were looking at me funny, like I could attack them any moment."

"Now that," Drew said, "Would be a sight, hon."

"My dad's pissed off as well. He says that people are jumping to conclusions. They see us as the enemy because we're the closest thing they've got."

"How ingenious. As if that wasn't obvious."

Mark glared at her before shifting his position. "Whatever. I'm American after all; they can keep their damn looks to themself."

Drew shrugged, pushing her hair away from her face. They fell into silence once more.

-x-

It was breakfast (nothing more than tiny fish and a small-fry up) when the explosions began. Drew had been reaching across the table for a bit of vegetables when the sky had burst; it had erupted blood-red and sun-yellow, fringing up the coconut trees in its fiery tears. The house had rattled, the china display on the mantelpiece quivering in its holder.

"What's going on?" Her mother had shouted and her father had stood up, his face disbelieving even behind its stoic facade.

Remembering what Mark had told her about the growing threat of the Japanese army, Drew yelled, her voice splintering "Turn on the radio, pa! I think its Japan attack-"

The glare he had given her had been so cold, so icy, that she had almost preferred the wild heat.

"My country cannot do such a thing. They would not do such a thing."

Drew rolled her eyes when she caught herself, rushing over to the radio and twisting the dial. The announcer sputtered on mid-sentence, his voice strangely comical.

"Not a drill, I repeat this is not a drill! We are being attacked by the rising sun, folks, this is the real McCoy! We are- I repeat- we are being attacked by Japan! And on a Sunday too, I repeat-"

Her father had crossed over to the radio, switching it off. His face, like her mother's, was pained and shocked. Silence—if such a thing at that moment were possible—mocked them in the small room. Drew ran out of the house, standing in the drying patch of grass, her face turned to the sky. A barrage of planes, the symbol of Japan painted clearly on their wings, were blazing away from the scene, and leaving behind a trail of destruction. She could see blossoms of flame from Pearl Harbour just a little ways away, and even worse, she could hear it, the sounds of desperation beating themselves into her very bones.

-x-

Mark, by happy coincidence, had been drafted mere weeks before the attack and had been at home on leave when the planes had come. Once the bay had calmed—not completely, but still—he had rushed over to Drew's in his uniform; his shirt still un-tucked and blowing about in the wind.

"Did you—"

"Yes, yes, of course!" A stream of people lined the bay, their shocked eyes staring off into the distance. A child with a bucket filled halfway with packed sand was uncomprehending, her little fingers pulling at the clothes of the gathering crowd.

"Shit." Mark whistled, "Shit. We're in for it now, I tell you."

His face was angry; Drew knew that look, it was one that she had seen oftentimes. Mark was the type of the person who seemed to carry the fight within him, as if underneath the surface he was twitching with an animalistic dance of raw anger.

Drew tugged on a handful of hair. "Where are you going?"

"Off to base. We've all been called down. Shit." He seemed to be unable to express his frustration in any other way. "Where are your parents?"

"Inside the house. They couldn't believe it, my father especially."

"Even _I _can't believe it. How could they just—this—shit."

Drew sighed, still feeling foggy. "Shouldn't you be off?"

"Yeah, guess I should." He stared at her for a second before shrugging and pulling her into a half-hug before he jogged off past the crowd and the bay.

-x-

Her father had already been a man steeped silence, but he seemed to have fallen into something far deeper than that. In the days immediately following the attack he had only seem to speak to the other older Japanese men, always in their native tongue, always worried.

Drew had been privy to many suspicious glances from the other islanders. Sure, it had been bad enough before, but after Pearl Harbour, the need to blame someone was so thick in the air that she felt it permeating her skin the moment she woke up. She told herself again and again that she wasn't Japanese, that she was American, but the hostile glances in the eyes of the others only shoved her back into a box where everything was similar and therefore the exact same.

For dinner one night—her father had been late home, no doubt on the boat (contemplating, Drew thought bitterly, as if _meditation _was going to do him any good now)—her mother had laid down tempura, which they hadn't had for a while.

Drew had taken a bit of everything else, forgoing the crispy wrapped prawns. Her mother had noticed, her alabaster brow creasing.

She did not say a word.

-x-

The worst day was when They came. Drew was sitting in the living room, helping her mother put a thread through a needle (her father was out back gutting the fish) when there was a knock on the door.

Her father had come hurriedly through the back, his sleeves flapping on his too-big shirt. They were two men, tight and uncomfortable in the heat.

"Messer Yo-gee Ten-eh-ka?"

"Tanaka." Drew had said brusquely, standing up; her father glared at her.

"Yes."

The older looking of the two had shrugged. "We need to check your house, if that's okay with you."

"For what?"

"You need to understand," the younger one pushed forwards, "There's been an attack by your people mere days ago. We've got to take precautions."

Mr Tanaka pursed his lips. "The act was a dishonourable one, yes."

The younger one snorted, "Slick."

The older man looked apologetic at his partner's impudence and shrugged once more as they entered the tiny house. The family sat awkwardly in the silent living room as the officers brushed through the house. Finally they emerged, their arms laden. Amongst the items were an old album filled with her mother's pictures of when she used to live in Japan, a calligraphy set, and the family katana—a simple object.

"What is this?" Mr Tanaka asked, his voice still set in stone, impassive.

"Old Country stuff." The younger one glared, "Enemy stuff. Contraband stuff, get it?"

"Officer Cowles means," the older one sighed, "That we've got to bring this down—"

"You going to take the china set too?" Drew asked angrily, "You want my kimono, my mother's rice—"

"Be silent!" Her father snapped, the unkindness in his voice not directed at her. "I am sorry; officer, but you must take the katana? It is a family heirloom and I—"

"About that," Officer Cowles said, his eyes beady with distrust, "We've got to bring you down the station. It's enemy stuff. Dangerous."

"What he means is that it's a precautionary measure." The other one said and it was obvious that he was not happy about the way of things. "I'm sorry, but if you could pack an overnight bag… It's just a short visit, I promise. Just some simple questions. I'm sure you're innocent."

"My country does not speak for me." Mr Tanaka said coldly.

"See, he says it," Officer Cowles broke in, "_His _country he says, he says—"

"Carl!" The older one snapped. Mr Tanaka looked as if he wanted to speak but had decided that he was in a state that transcended mere words. He disappeared into one of the two rooms and Mrs Tanaka followed, leaving Drew to scowl at the officers.

"Don't that hair get cumbersome in this weather?" Officer Cowles asked and she flipped him off, enjoying the shocked expression that burst out into his face after. The older one sighed for the millionth time that day.

Her father finally reappeared; he had changed into a pressed shirt and slacks, a small pack in his weathered hand.

"We'll wait outside." The older one said and they left.

"Drew." Her father said and she stood to meet him. "Be good, child. Listen to your mother. I will be back soon."

"Yes, father."

He and his wife exchanged their goodbyes. Drew felt a thousand words tingling on her tongue but she said none of them, directing her thoughts into her eyes as she watched her father walk away, his figure small and straight-backed between the two hulking men.

-x-

Two days later, Drew was picking up some groceries—nothing much—from Main Street when she was accosted a carful of boys outside the store. The one who spoke had an angry looking buzz cut and pale green eyes.

"Look guys, if it isn't some Jap whore."

She resisted the urge to scream at them and made to turn on her way but the bunch of hyenas only churned out more insults.

"Traitorous slut!"

"Go back to your country, bitch!"

"I bet your father was on those planes—"

She had turned then, her eyes blazing, all thought of decorum forgotten, "You _bastard_," she snarled as hot tears pricked the backs of her eyes. "Why don't you just go home, boys? I'm sure your ma is waiting with your bottles, sweetie." She took care to put as much venom as she could into the last word.

One of the shopkeepers—a man of Polish ancestry that even they could not mistake for Asian (Chinese, Hawaiian, Filipino, Japanese; they were all the same to them) came out of his store to glare at the boys.

"Any trouble?" He asked Drew, sucking on his teeth. She shook her head and stalked down the street. She had made it to the end of the curb when they flung their last stone.

"We knew you were a Jap even from your back! Hair like that—you probably have to eat cats to get that kind of hair!"

She hurried down the corner and she did not cry.

-x-

The house was empty when she returned. She had set down the groceries slowly, methodically. Then she retreated into the kitchen, sunspots from the heat still dancing in her eyes, and pulled out a pair of scissors.

_A wild ebony waterfall—jap slut—we knew you were a jap—hair like that_; _don't it get cumbersome?_

She hesitated, one hand holding her hair in a coil, the other tight on the scissors.

Just before she could muster the courage to snip, her mother had entered. Gasping in shock, Drew turned. The woman's face was set.

"What are you doing?"

"Cutting my hair."

"You said when you were younger that you would never cut it short."

"I said many things!" Drew snapped, even as she laid down the scissors. "It's… cumbersome."

"Who told you that?" When Drew did not respond, her mother sighed, "We can have tempura for dinner as well even though I only made it last week—Mrs Miyamoto was kind enough—"

That was when Drew had snapped. "I don't want tempura, mother! Don't you understand! How can you still eat that, how can you still do these things now? We are not Japanese!"

She had never shouted at her parents before. Her mother drew out a chair and sat, deliberately and slowly. "Sit." She instructed.

"I don't want to."

"Sit."

Drew obeyed.

"You are ashamed," the woman had said simply. "You want your hair short? Go do it. You can cut it off but the base will still be there. What will you do then? Shave it all away?"

Drew plucked at the tablecloth, it was clean but there was a hole on the left side, wide and gaping. Sunlight fluttered in through the windowpanes and a gentle lilt of honeysuckle drenched-air entered the room.

"Drew," her mother instructed, "Look at me. You are Japanese. You are also American. I cannot pretend to understand the confusion. Your father and I are both first-generation. Just because you come from the same family does not mean they will speak for you or act for you. Do you understand?"

"But they say—"

"Let them say." Her mother said in a final tone. "Come here."

Drew walked over and her mother gathered her air, letting it spill over her right shoulder. "_Shikataganai_."

It cannot be helped.

Drew sniffled and her mother told her to stand. "Your father is coming back today. He phoned at Miyamoto." She stood as well, prising open the lid of the container that held the tempuras. The scent of it wafted through the room, wrapping itself subtly around the furniture.

"Keep your back straight, Drew." She said as her daughter plucked the crust off one and placed it delicately on her tongue. She tapped gently on her left shoulder blade to stop her daughter from slouching. "Posture is important. Hold your neck high. Then only you walk."


	9. I will climb the lonely, silent hill

They had travelled to the border already; they were bound for Russia. It turned out that Herr Stoll had been a man of certain prominence in the Communist Party, and he had made quite a few friends abroad who were willing to provide lodging for his remaining family.

The Stolls shivered underneath the soft and sporadic flickering of a tiny piece of sun in its cast-iron trapping. It was around dinner time and the three of them could smell the taste of food lingering in the air, accompanied by the lively chatter of families.

Presently, a man came to meet them. He had a large, jovial face and was wrapped in a thick woollen coat. Autumn was approaching and the leaves tinged in the vibrant colours of a volcanic eruption were paying heed to that.

"Maria?" The man asked, and when their mother responded, he threw up his arms in joy. "Thank the Lord in high heaven—you made it!"

Pleasantries were exchanged and the man—Rotz—lamented at the loss of their father; _"a fine man, to be sure"_. At the end of it, he pulled out a stack of wrapped cards from his pocket and presented them to Maria who opened them gratefully.

"Travelling for you should not be much of a problem, Frau Stoll. It's the boy who I had to make the fake ones up for—I doubt our generous Fuhrer would appreciate the loss of a fine soldier!"

"The boy?" Maria asked in confusion; a confusion that grew more apparent when she only pulled out _one _fake document. "I'm sorry, Herr Rotz, but all three of us are going!"

Slack jawed in shock and horror, Herr Rotz sputtered, "But the messenger said that only two of you would be making the journey!" He pointed a beefy finger at Travis. "I only got_ his _picture; not the other ones!"

Travis and Connor rolled their eyes in unison. "Honestly Rotz," Connor joked, "We thought you were the best and you mixed up a simple order!"

Maria glared at him. "It's no matter, Herr Rotz. We can simply find a place to stay until you can help us make Connor's—"

"'Fraid you can't." The man said dismally. "See, Frau Stoll, our Fuhrer—blessed is his name—is going to wage an entirely idiotic war on the rest of Europe very soon. And I'm not staying here to be dragged down by that madman. I've got my own bags packed and I'm leaving in two hours for America. I'm terribly sorry, but it's all been arranged."

"But—but..." The seconds that pressed on them were urgent and desperate.

Connor looked at Travis with an exasperated expression. "Oh of course he made _your _document, Travis. It's always me, isn't it?"

"We simply can't go, then." Said their mother.

"Go ahead." Said Connor with much effort, "I'm sure I can find someone to help—"

"Not a good idea." Said Rotz. "We all knew you came to me because your father," his voice grew sombre, "was a great friend of mine. You don't know anyone else here; who are you going to trust? For all you know they could be Gestapo spies!"

"You're not helping, Herr Rotz." Travis groaned.

"Actually I am." The man said, pausing. "Frau Stoll, you and your son can board the train for Poland and on to Russia first. That part there will be no trouble with."

"But I can't leave my son behind!" The woman protested in frustration.

"You will not. Connor—is that it?—will be going to Russia as well, just taking a different route." Enjoying the hope that appeared on their faces, Rotz continued, "I have a niece of mine—Natasya—who will be making a trip to Russia on her own accord. She has no documents or anything and her trip is contraband; Lord knows why she does it. She will be leaving tonight, after a little mission. I'm sure she will be able to bring Connor along."

"What mission?" Connor asked, interested.

"No one knows."

"Are you sure we can trust her?" Their mother asked, "No offence, Herr Rotz… It's just that these are dangerous times."

Herr Rotz burst into amused laughter. "I myself don't trust Natasya! She was crooked from the moment the Good Lord in high heaven saw fit to curse her mother with her, the devil!"

"That," said Connor with resignation, "Is encouraging."

"That," replied Herr Rotz, "is why she can be trusted. I would trust her with nothing, it is true—except my life. Thieves honour, my friends. I and she will betray each other in any way except one that involves life. Rest assured, your son will be safe ."

"I'm still not certain…"

"It's the only way, ma." Connor said. Noticing the expression on Travis's face, he asked, "You're not worried about me, are you?"

"No. If you don't make it it just means that there'll be more food for me."

"Travis!" His mother began and he shrugged.

"I suppose… If you can guarantee, Herr Rotz… My husband did trust you after all."

"And that trust I will not betray," he promised. "Come, Connor, let's go meet the demon!" He turned away to give the little family some privacy.

"Ma, you have to do this," Connor said, "We'll all meet in Russia."

He looked at Travis; it was an unspoken pact that they knew that one of them would have to go with their mother. It was just the way things were; they had tried to be especially dutiful after their father's leaving. They had to make sure their mother would be safe as well.

"Now?" Connor finally asked, giving his mother a hug and Travis a clap on the back that his brother returned.

"Yes, now!"

With a final wave and a step around the corner, he disappeared.

-x-

"Why doesn't she use documents? Isn't it less dangerous?"

"More fun for her, she says. She's not right in the head. German on her father's side, which accounts for me being her uncle. Russian on her mother's which accounts for both her name and her thick skin."

Rotz led Connor up a steep, spiralling staircase in a musty, dark enclave to a shoddy looking door. He rapped twice and pushed it open. Immediately a shoe flew at him, accompanied by a burst of angry cursing.

"Hello, my dear niece!"

"Go to hell!"

Connor felt whatever faint glimmer of hope he had gradually fade away. After angrier cursing, Natasya calmed down enough to talk to them cordially. She was not pretty, but pleasant looking; her hair was thin and the colour of malt and her eyes were wide set and deceptively honest. The argument was something old and comfortable like a worn flannel shirt; not particularly hostile.

She agreed that she would help Connor to get to Russia and all but kicked her uncle out of the house. She glared at Connor in the aftermath. He glared back at her.

"So what's this mission you're uncle said you were going on?"

"If it was any of your fucking business, I would tell you!" She snapped as she tossed some items into bag.

"Language, now." He winked.

She gave him a murderous glare and wrenched the bag shut. She crossed over to the door, and turned off the lights. "You coming or what?"

Connor was half-tempted to say "or what" to piss her off, but decided against it. He would prefer not to be sent to Russia in a box.

-x-

The minute they descended onto the now-quiet early night time street, Natasya swivelled around to go right; the houses were arranged in way of wealth: the poorest made up the left; the biggest, most ornate house was located on the right.

"Who lives there?" Connor asked.

Natasya sighed. "The village mayor does; he's a Nazi. Of course he's not the only one, but he's the most terrible. I'm going to be taking some money from him."

"This a grand-robbery, huge heist thing? Connor asked eagerly. Natasya glared at him. It seemed to be a habit.

"Please don't mess this up."

"Woman," he snorted, "I'm an expert at these types of things."

"Are you?" Her gaze frosted again. They were walking a bit off the curb, the grass around their feet soft and comforting. "What is your expertise? Apples, vegetables? Food from the crates outside the store?"

Connor made to retort but she was already walking briskly past him. Perhaps it was a bad idea: stealing from the village's most dangerous Nazi on the night he was illegally leaving Germany, but Natasya had issued an unspoken challenge, and as such, it was his duty to accept it.

The house was arrogant and overtly extensive. Already, Connor felt a twinge of hatred for the inhabitants. He imagined a crisp officer like Katie's father.

"Did this village have any Jews?" He asked Natasya.

"Yes. She was a young woman, she lived alone; she worked for the tailor. She was taken awaken when... when, you know."

They walked purposely towards the windows of the first floor, which were dark and of a floor-to-ceiling length.

"Good." Natasya said. "He must be out. The bastard always has the lights on at night if he's in.

"Is he scared of the dark?"

Natasya ignored him and went over to the door which was locked. Connor slid a bobby pin from her hair and jiggled it inside the lock. She hit him and he winced but the door—which was a rich, golden-brown, honey-wine sort of colour, clicked open. They both went inside.

The room was dark.

"I doubt he keeps all his money in here." Connor said uneasily.

"He keeps some of it, at least; in a safe by his bed. I've seen it."

"How the hell are we going to open the safe?"

"I know the combination. I've spied on him."

"I just wanted to go to Russia." He said mournfully.

"For God's sake, _shut up_!"

They walked up the staircase—the banister slippery and well-polished under their fingertips—and turned into the third door on the right. The bedroom was unlocked.

It was a neat room. The officer was a methodical, logical man who had a fist of iron. He was good to the children of course; the children he viewed as human, at least. In his arrogance at his superiority—it did not cross his mind that anyone would go against what he thought his firm, kind leadership—he had kept the safe by the bed, disguised only be a fine, set of scarves that made it look like an ottoman. A flag hung from the balcony railings: red with a white circle in the middle, the swastika leering down at the rose garden below. A light drizzle was creating a fine, thin mist; the damp air was causing a thick and heady perfume to rise from the roses. Connor was momentarily reminded of Katie writing about flowers in a notebook, which in turn reminded him of his friend Reuben and how they both would tease his younger brother Malcolm. He saw his father, showing him how to tie a proper knot, his weathered face creased in concentration. Shaking his head to rid it of the unwelcome memories, which were making his skull itch, Connor watched Natasya swing the safe door open. Her hands immediately lunged for the money and Connor knew there was no way he'd be getting any of it. He walked around the room, coming to a stop at a burnished cabinet.

Prising open the drawer, he blinked. It was full of watches atop a green felt layering. Looking back to make sure Natasya was still busy with the safe, Connor pulled the first one out. It was _gold_. He wondered briefly why the man hadn't worn this out before he realised: the graceful curve of the clasp, the intricacy of the detailling that surrounded the watch face mimicking embroidery; it was a woman's watch. He stuck it into his pocket. There were many more; all expensive, all tasteful. The man was a watch collector. Connor stuck all of them, there were ten in total, in his bag's hidden compartment. Natasya came from behind, plucking the remaining watch from his hand. This watch was slightly plain compared to the others, but no less beautiful. The face was mother-of-pearl, faint rainbows on the shining surface, and surrounded by crystalline jade.

"Hey-" Connor began to protest, because Natasya was pissing him off, but she shook her head, her expression repulsed.

"I know this watch. It was _hers_, the Jew I told you about! The bastard!"

I suppose even thieves have moralistic qualms.

Connor felt sick. Stealing was all fine and well, but stealing from the dead... Well that was something neither he or Natasya could stomach. The girl stuffed the watch angrily into her pocket and Connor knew that she would not be using that to her advantage, at least.

"Well that is done." She said, "Let's go."

They made to leave by the front, but they heard the door open and slam.

"The window, the window!" Connor gasped and they ran towards it.

"It's nothing but garden!" Connor despaired. Natasya sighed and heaved him out of the open window; he was too shocked to think proper but he landed into a soft clump of rose bushes, water fairies from their gentle petals slipping onto his skin. Natasya joined him mere seconds later. He realised belatedly that the length was not that far off, there hadn't been much risk of too bad an injury.

"You could have killed me!" He was fine- winded from the fall, but fine.

"Too bad I didn't."

He glared at her, but she had already made her way to her feet and was running down the street, so he followed.

-x-

"So there are two men in jail, right. One of them says to the other, 'hey what are you in here for?' He replies saying that he always comes in to work on time. The first man is confused and asks for elaboration. 'Oh,' says the other, 'They assumed I must have an american watch to always be on time.'"

Connor was so amused by himself that he doubled over laughing. "Welcome to mother Russia!"

Natasya had gone into her moods again and she turned around to glare at him while picking an apple of a pile and slipping it into her pocket.

"Don't you ever speak to me again."

Connor sighed. Travis would have laughed at the joke; but then he would have followed it up with something better and everyone would forget about Connor. That did tend to happen.

What was wrong with him today? Perhaps it was just something to do with the soft rain and the train station but he was feeling strangely melancholy.

The rumbling of the train was making congealed, grey puffs in the air. It was a supply train and it's destination was Russia. The locomotive was whistling, a high-pitched sound that seemed to scrape at Connor's ears.

"How are we going to get on again?"

"It will be no problem when we get into Poland. It will make a stop and we can get a ride legally on another train."

"Well, are we going to sneak in amongst the goods for this one?"

She gave him a disgusted look. "The goods? They'll check the goods! We can slip in under the train."

Connor shook his head. "Ah... And I thought you couldn't joke, Natasya."

"I am not joking! It is the safest place! You get underneath, secure yourself by the rods and just hold on! Or don't you dare?"

Plenty of unpleasant words were teetering on the edge of Connor's tongue but he burst out with a simple, light, "Of course I dare. Just tell me how."

"We get on know." She appraised him coolly. "It's due any minute and we'd best do it in the clear."

They both rolled under the train, the soot etching itself momentarily in their noses and causing them to sneeze. Connor watched how Natasya wedged herself neatly into the underside of the train and imitated her. One of the bars was pressing into his stomach but a quick shift gave him a more comfortable position.

"We stay this way until Poland?"

"No, you idiot! We wait until the train leaves the station for a bit, then we climb out and get in to the supplies. We can leap off when just after we reach Poland so they won't know."

"Why didn't you just get papers. Or your own documents?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

She probably had some issues. The train rumbled the life, the wheels next them whirring. With an almighty lurch, the locomotive started to press forwards. Connor found himself amazed at the speed of which he was flying over the gravel. The sound of the engine in his ears, the ground both close and away from him... It was surreal, strangely surreal.

He found himself in a contented silence, his mind drifting to other matters. Travis was probably comfortably in an aisle seat now. Connor did wish that his brother was here- that would be fun, no doubt; indeed it was strange for him to be separated from Travis, if only because the two had been together for as long as he could remember (forever, actually) and it felt odd to be out from under his shadow.

And he wouldn't be thinking this if Travis was in danger -no this was only because he was secure in the knowledge that his brother was safe- but that was a strangely freeing place to be; not being under his brother's shadow.

-x-

About forty-five minutes after the train set off, Natasya gave the signal for them to get up. Connor didn't feel too happy about making his way up the violently shifting train but the friction and contained space were beginning to hurt his back and his arms were getting numb; if they didn't make it off now there was going to be a far chance that they would fall off.

So he waited for Natasya to ease her way out and grip the underside of the train before she swung out. His heart beating wildly, he followed; the once comforting and monotonous rush of track underneath now seemed lethal. In his peripheral vision, through eyes clouded with fear, he saw the girl make her way to the connector. He realised that he was standing up now and he followed her. He only dared to breathe normally when they had made their way into a carriage filled with what he presumed to be grain. Compared to the howling of the wind outside and the rushing of the train, the space here was wonderfully quiet.

Once they neared Poland, Natasya nudged him awake; he had fallen asleep and he rubbed his eyes.

"We get off here." She instructed, pointing. He saw nothing but an expanse of grass that led off into an eventual forest.

"What; we _leap_ off?"

"Isn't that what I told you?"

So they both stood, facing the grass with the wind rushing into their faces, whistling in their ears and making their eyes water before Natasya grabbed Connor's wrist and threw them both off the train; they rumbled onto the downy grass, collecting their breath in short, raspy puffs.

It was so absurd that Connor began to laugh.

Standing up on shaky legs, they made their way into the small town that greeted them, where they bought a ticket that would take them to Russia.

Connor's usual documents would let him in since he was no free of the German guards that would have turned him around and marched him to the step of the army. Natasya had hers too, free from the German strain as well.

They waited by a lake for the train to board. It was strangely peaceful with the faint starlight and the rippling water. In the deep quiet, it was hard to believe that a shadow was hanging over Europe, that soon life as they knew it would become a bloody mark on the sheet of history.

"She always liked the water; lakes more than seas." Natasya said, sliding a thumb over the watch's clasp. Her voice was uncharacteristically soft and free of it's usual droll cynicism.

"They're bastards," she hissed to herself, "damned _bastards_." She drew back her arm and threw the watch as far out as she could reach; it shimmered once in the water before it twinkled into oblivion.

In ten days, though they didn't know it then, Hitler would march his armies into Poland. The lake, now silent and sparkling, would be tinged with blood.

Connor shrugged. "Why did the bird drop out of the tree?"

Natasya stood up to leave. He pursed his lips to suppress his laughter.

"It was dead."

-x-

They spent the ride to Russia stealing: Natasya took the blobs of butter packaged into wrapped cubes. Connor took paper tubes of sugar.

-x-

When they finally reached Russia, it was evening. The horizon was purplish-blue, the edges fringed with a reddish glow that rinsed the buildings and the skeleton trees. Trouble arose immediately on the platform when a gang of angry men started a fight. Connor had no idea what the hell was going on but things had started flying around and people were running and screaming and then there were gunshots. It was over nothing really, just a gang war that they had the misfortune to find themselves in.

He realised that the human wave had separated him and Natasya. A haze of bullets and sharp objects were cementing the barrier between them. Something knocked Connor on the head and he collapsed onto the hard floor, blood erupting from his upper lip.

He looked up at Natasya; it would be suicide for her to try help him up (and no one else even realised because they were too busy fighting or escaping) but she had to, didn't she?

_I would never trust Natasya._

Her blood uncle's words, Connor thought despondently; he himself was unsure if he could trust the girl.

And rightly so: she was looking over her shoulder, wondering if she should help Connor. Her expression seemed to decide against it and she turned slightly to go.

Connor looked at her pleadingly, the shouts and shots echoing in his already throbbing head, before his vision clouded and faded into black.

-x-

When Connor woke up, the first thing he experienced was a thwack to the head that made everything go black again.

-x-

When he woke once more something was pressed immediately to his lips; he felt a hot, burning trickle run down his throat. There was a gleeful, "It's vodka, ass!" and he heard footsteps, vaguely.

Then the bottle was whisked away and a beam of light entered -oh he was in a room. On a bed. Outside he could see the spires of Saint Basil of Moscow: the fleshy, blossoming bases that gave way to tapered swirls; they were painted in clay shades and their effect against the dark sky was mystical.

"Did you whack him again, Travis?" He heard his mother's comforting voice.

"No, ma, I swear!"

Then his mother was engulfing him into a hug.

"You made it, oh you made it! Natasya brought you up here... Not by yourself, of course, she wasn't strong enough so she got help to carry you up the stairs."

"What?"

"He's confused!" Travis said with a strange delight. "Okay, Connor. You owe me money- lots of it!"

"Travis!"

It was all coming back to him now: the fight at the train station, the soft bed of roses, the gravel as he flew over it pressed to the underside of the train...

"I made it." He said slowly, savouring the words. "I made it!" He grinned up at them before asking, "Where's Natasya?"

"Oh, she left. Couldn't say, she said. She won't be back."

"Oh." He was too muggy to think about that for now. So she had helped him, she supposed she wasn't that bad after all. He then realised that she wasn't that bad, actually. After all, he'd made it to Russia! She'd put up with his jokes! They'd stolen enough to run a confectionary, even! He then remembered the watches; now that they were in a brand new country, a little bit of wealth wouldn't go amiss.

He stretched over the side of his bed to pick up his bag and rifled through the zippers until he found a hidden compartment. He reached into it and withdrew his hand, torn between a fierce desire to either laugh or curse.

The bag was empty. Natasya had struck again.


	10. I'll walk the lonely track, I will

There was a cream manila envelope in Pollux's coat pocket; it was by physical means, light and almost weightless, but it seemed to be burning a hole inside of him, a searing weight that rushed through his skin. The suicide of Hitler had just been announced days previous, the surrender of Germany was imminent—and he felt no despair at the defeat of his country, no relief at the end of the war. In fact, he felt nothing at all. And that, more than anything, scared him.

So as the rest of his disgruntled troop lay their weary and defeated heads to sleep in their shoddy, broken encampment that night, Pollux packed his bags. He packed little in the way of clothes and necessities, filling the front pouch with cheap alcohol. He was going to need it. When he heard the sounds of sleep rise, he hitched his pack on his aching shoulder and walked away without looking back.

It was that deep period when the night was darkest; the path for him was lit by a spray of stars that illuminated his way in small crescents. He did not feel heavy though the letter in his pocket did; he felt numb and useless. The forests around him were black in the night and they reminded him vividly of one such forest in his childhood home in Cologne. That forest had twisting, joyous paths in it which him and his brother had ran through with their other friends in youthful ecstasy. Those days were long gone.

Soon, he came upon a series of tents, shrouded in dark. The moon had foggy wisps surrounding its bloated hide. He could tell from the little bits and pieces—complacency at Hitler's suicide must have made them careless—that it was an American establishment. Try as Pollux might he could not muster hatred for the troops that were eating his country. He walked on, pulling a bottle out of his pack and twisting the cap open.

He was just about to lift a bottle to his lips when a sound jolted him from behind.

"Stop there, German!"

The inconvenience unsettled him; he was in no mood for games. The soldier that had stopped him was American—Japanese, he would say—and he was alone, though armed. Pollux's mother, whose own mother had emigrated from England to marry his grandfather back before this bloody mess, had taught him and his brother English. He could understand beyond basic commands. He raised his arms, the bottle clutched tightly.

"I'm not here to harm any of you," he said tiredly, glancing into the American's angry eyes. "Just let me go. I just want to go." He paused, relishing the sight of the gun, realising in a flash that he wouldn't care if the boy decided to do the opposite.

"What the hell are you doing—"

"Shoot me then," he said softly, "If you think I'm a threat, shoot me!"

The soldier hesitated with the gun and for some reason this enraged Pollux, "Do not stand there and pretend sympathy!" He shouted, "You and I both know that you've hunted down people like me on the battlefield, and God knows I've done the same to you!" The letter in his pocket heaved with the exertion of his heavy breathing. "We've never cared then, so why should you care now! _Shoot_!"

The boy lowered his weapon slightly. For some reason he was wearing his military overcoat and Pollux could make out the word _Uehara _on his pin. "Is that beer?" The soldier asked.

"Alcohol," Pollux said with some confusion at the turn of the subject, "Cheap."

"Give us a drink." Uehara said, his weapon lowered even more. "Go on, give us both a drink. Let's sit."

"What?" He was incredibly perplexed now.

"I mean it, you and me. Let's split a bottle."

Pollux gave a wan laugh. "I'm in no mood for your games—"

"No games!" The soldier raised his hands. It was eerily quiet, the darkness pressing down on them. "Just drinks, that's the way it's supposed to be."

Pollux, who already couldn't care, sighed and decided that he would just play along. He gestured to a bit of rock wedged between some oaks a little ways in front. "Let's drink there, then."

Uehara walked behind him and both of them sat at ends of the rock. Pollux glanced suspiciously at Uehara who handed him a flask of his own—not before tipping out some water—to fill. Pollux filled about half of it and kept the other half for himself. They stared at each other for a moment before Uehara gestured at him.

"You drink first, so I know it's not poisoned."

Pollux laughed bitterly and raised his bottle; Uehara followed. For a short while, all was quiet again. Then Uehara spoke.

"This is quite bad."

"Cheap, I told you."

He shrugged in agreement and raised his flask to the soft light of the moon. Pollux looked down through the slim neck of his own bottle and saw stars from the sky swimming in the murky liquid.

"Can I go now?" He ventured.

Uehara pretended not to hear him. "Tell me, German, what do you dream about at night?"

"What kind of fucking game is this?"

"Not a game." Uehara shrugged. "We're supposed to be different, you and me; I want to see if that's true."

Pollux thought he hated him but decided to answer with the truth, not that it mattered. "I dream of red." He confessed shortly. "Red everywhere; people I've murdered in the name of the Fuhrer." Shifting his gaze, he saw a pristine clump of edelweiss, their white pure and unstained. The sight brought an unwelcome lump to his throat.

The boy nodded.

"What about you?" Pollux asked.

"The same, I guess."

"This is absurd."

"This war is absurd." Uehara paused. "You know, before this, I was so eager to come out and fight. Then I killed my first man…" His voice trailed off. "But I'd do it again… Not because I want to, but because you've given us no choice. Because it's the thing we _have _to do." He looked at Pollux. "What about you?"

"There are many things I've done that I won't do again." He said shortly.

Uehara shifted to look at the flowers, "You want me to pick some for you?" He asked sarcastically.

Pollux shook his head. His hand was starting to tremble and before he knew it, the words were spilling out like a dam that had been unblocked.

"There was… there was a girl back in my old town. She loved flowers very much. Had a little book and would write about them. I thought her strange." It was funny, the things you thought of, at the oddest moments.

"Did you make fun of her?"

Pollux shook his head. "In those years… I tried not to talk to anyone. But no one looked twice at her. Then one day she came to school and her socks weren't long enough to cover the scars on her legs… They were horrible scars. You have heard of _kristallnacht_?"

Uehara nodded. "I think so, the Night of Broken Glass?"

"Correct. Her father had dragged her through the glass…" Pollux felt the old ghosts tugging on his shoulder blades again and he thought that there was no reason that he shouldn't give in to them tonight. "There were two boys with her. We were all in the same class, but the boys managed to leave before the war." He paused. "I told you I tried not to talk to anyone except my brother. They made me sick, all; a boy named Rudolph and his gang… always going after those two because their father was communist. Do you what I heard they did to him? They brought him to a river and they drowned him. They held him under the water and they watched his limbs flailing, they watched his eyes bulge and his skin turn blue…"

His hands were shaking even more now. He put the bottle down shakily, wiping a hand across his lips. Uehara sat with his face like a stone; the expression was blank, unreadable. "On the night when the girl got her scars the Jewish family were taken away. I watched," his voice was tormented, "I watched for a while until they got the grandfather. Then I could not bear it, I tried to shut it all out. I went away from the window. They crushed his skull. I saw the blood rain down the street. I was too afraid to do anything. For years I thought I was better than them because I did nothing."

"You're the same." Uehara said, his voice sour with disgust, "You didn't do nothing to stop it, you're the same!"

Pollux did not dispute him. "That I was, I think. But do not judge, American. You don't know what it was like—"

"I know what I damned well would've done in your place!"

"Then you're a hero, fine?" Pollux yelled back, "But we are not all the same! Do you not think I regret it? Do you not think that I see those faces every day and wish I could have been braver than what I was! Instead I am still alive and they are dead!" There was no other sound; his desperation was poignant. "But don't judge us all too harshly," he managed, thinking of people like Herr Stoll, "I swear to you we were not all monsters." The silence grew again. It throbbed.

"I wish…" he stopped, "I wish I had been braver. I will always wish that."

He found he was breathing heavily again. He felt like he was walking on glass. The letter in his pocket was mocking him.

"I know you hate me," he said to Uehara, his voice under control, resigned, "So do it. Kill me. I will not fight, I will not complain."

A blanket crossed over Uehara's face. "You know—"

"I know that my brother is dead!" Pollux shouted, "The brother that I have known since I was born! Do you know we did everything together?" His words were spurred by not only the fire of the alcohol but also the rawness of honesty that for some reason did not matter because this Uehara was a stranger and he would never see him again; if Uehara did not pull the trigger, he would find a spot and do it himself. "He was my _brother_," he said to himself; all the numbness was gone, the grief was crashing upon him, closing his throat and gnawing its way out of his eyes. "My twin," he said quietly, his voice was very small, "Castor."

Uehara's voice was gentler now; it was still harsh of course, but gentler. "Were you there, when he died?"

Pollux shook his head, "I should have been. We were sent to different troops. My mother sent me the letter that told me." He saw the village of his youth again; his house had been small and comfortable. He wasn't sure if it was still standing, what with the bombs. The letter had been addressed three months ago and he had only got it three days ago. For all he knew, his mother could be dead. The forest in which he and his brother played could be ashes now, hollow and grey.

"Tell me the truth," Uehara said softly, "Where were you going before I stopped you?"

Pollux caught himself glancing to the edge of the road before he could stop himself, the road veered off into a fork; one led to a village, the other led to a cliff that dropped devilishly down to a roaring river. He was looking at the latter. Uehara noticed and tapped his foot impatiently.

Pollux, his face drawn and tight, looked back at him. Uehara stood up. "I've always only seen differences," the boy admitted, "Back in my home there were lots of colours, all different." He paused, fiddling with his nametag. "I wanted to see if it was true, that other people and I… that we'd always be different." He shrugged, looking at the moon, drinking in its clouds. "I guess we're not that different after all."

"You're letting me go?"

"Hey, we've won the war anyway. Heil Hitler no more, eh?"

Pollux nodded without noticing and stood up himself. He pulled the letter out of his pocket. Strangely, it did not burn anymore. Of course it still hurt; painfully and madly so… but it did not burn his skin, and that could have been a start.

Uehara turned to walk back to his camp. "Thanks for the beer, man." He said, lifting his hand in a final farewell as he began to trudge back to his camp. "Go home to your mother."

Pollux was keenly aware of the detail around him; of the cool scented wind that blew against his skin. He thought about how it would be if his village _had _been bombed; on one hand those who had marched so fiercely through the streets singing praises of the Reich would be gone. On the other the children who knew nothing more than the tug of their mother's hand, those like Katie who had never agreed to the madness, who had stood in their own way against it, would be dead. But maybe his village still stood, he reckoned, maybe the river in the forest still flowed with clear water that sparkled under the midday sun.

_Go home to your mother_. He pulled on his bag and walked towards the fork in the road. He went to the one that led to the river, watching it crash on the rocks below him, the water sending a clear spray thrashing against the harsh surfaces. He thought of his mother penning the letter alone in the house with the sounds of the forest behind her. He stood there for a while, the letter in his hands, before he released it; he watched the paper sail off and be caught up in the grasp of the black river before he turned and made his way to the other prong of the fork in the road.


	11. To get my mother back

_Author's Note: This is the last chapter. Thank you for sticking with this story. The quotes from Part I to IV are lines from the section of The Libation Bearers (Aeschylus) that I was introduced to via Harry Potter. The quote from Part V comes from Marcus Zusack's The Book Thief. Religious content is included; the people of Sicily during that period were particularly spiritual. None of the reflected views are necessarily mine; make of them what you will.  
_

* * *

To the people of Sicily who still paid heed to the gods of their ancestors, the decision to name one's child after the God of Death may have been an odd one. But his mother had been one of the Roma, who had left her people in favour of marriage to her Sicilian husband. Her spirit was a tempest and her soul a storm. She smiled shamefully when she explained the name to her neighbours; she claimed ignorance to avoid their distrusting eyes already clouded with the mention of her gypsy blood, _"I thought Hades was the God of Wealth alone—how stupid, I confess". _

When her son was nine he had spotted a book at the marketplace; a motley collection of pictures and simple sentences that told of each Greek Deity. He had begged her to get it and she had done so with a toss of her glinting ebony twists and efforts of saving and ploughing. It was the only time he had paid attention in school, so he could read those words; at the age of twelve, like most of his friends, he quit.

"Why have I been named after a Death God?" He had asked.

"To worship life," she had answered, "is to know death. Do not make the mistake of fear. You don't know how much they love each other."

* * *

Part I

Oh, the torment bred in the race,  
the grinding scream of death

* * *

Sicily, 1936

In the shadow of the night, everything is one and the same.

The di Angelo family was making their escape for these reasons: The father had the blood of the Roma—the scorned Gypsy—hated by a blossoming friend of Italy; the mother Maria was an outspoken woman who laughed at the face of fascism at every chance she got—humour was never beloved of the oppressor; in general, as much as they loved the island of Sicily, where their houses grasped painfully to the jagged cliffs that taunted the sea, Italy was not kind to them.

Their destination was the Church, from which they would cross to the ocean, and make their escape. It was a moonless night and strangling heat beat down upon their backs as they rushed through the whitewashed and peeling houses that smiled sadly at the red dust.

Before their midnight escape, Hades had been seized by a sudden fist of paternal duty. While he loved his children, he found himself incapable of an obvious show of emotion. Tonight, with the fear curdling in him, however, he found his heart aching like a dry bone. With his daughter, it was easier. But his son, Nico, was supposed to be a Man, even at the tender age of ten. Whatever parental emotion the boy had was to be received from the mother.

"Nico," he had finally said finally, as he watched the boy rubbed his tired eyes and waited for his mother to say her final prayers to the porcelain statuette of the Saint Christopher, the patron of safe travel. Hades took from his pocket a tiny, yellow book with faded drawings. "This is for you." He said too roughly for his liking.

"What is it about?" The boy asked, excitement charging him awake. "What do the pictures mean? Why is that one holding the lightning, father? How does he do it—"

"I will teach you," he cut off, his head pounding with the boy's barrage of questions, "Make sure you keep this safe on the trip to America and I will teach you."

The boy nodded reverently as his mother came out holding the hand of his sister, the serious and dark-eyed Bianca.

"We are ready." The woman whispered and Hades nodded. Together they stepped out into the night. In the distance, the sea seemed to hold her breath. Maria and the children left first—a group of four would have been too noticeable, and Hades was the most obvious of the lot.

Tugging the hands of her children and walking on nimble feet, Maria lit the path by capturing the starlight in her hair. They were jars and their souls were silent in fear and excitement. Finally the church appeared. It was a simple building with a rectangular pane of hollow colour in a stained glass depiction of the Christ Child and the Virgin Mary.

A distance behind, Hades followed.

Just as Maria stepped forward to reach the doors of the old church, a burst of light and harsh sound blinded them. Bianca screamed as a jeep rumbled through the scratchy streets. Separated from his family, Hades felt his heart claw its way out of his chest. He hurried forwards to get to their aid but guards leaped out of the vehicle and got a hold on him—a frantic tussle saw him knocked out, his face weeping against the rough earth of Sicily.

Maria took a look of anger and fear at the guards before running forwards towards the church, her desperate hands urging her frightened children forward. She let go of Bianca momentarily, a fist pounding on the door.

"Sanctuary, Father Falconi!" She shrieked as her ribcage begged, "Open the doors!"

Nico joined in pensively, "Help us Father!" He shouted, "Open the doors!"

From the jeep, the town's head of the Carabinieri—the police of Italy, stepped out. The church did not open its doors. Nicknamed Metheus by the people who still occasionally offered a libation to the old gods, he was a man loved, loathed, feared and respected. He smiled sadly as he watched the woman before him, wrapped in a flimsy travelling cloak.

"Do you beg the Lord, Maria?" He asked, "For He blesses the righteous and tramples upon the wicked."

Maria paused from her frantic knocking to spit at the man's feet. "Then he surely will grant you passage into the devil's kingdom."

Seeing no help, she withdrew a gun from the folds of her clothes with trembling hands. She whispered to her children to step back and they did. Before she could fire a shot, however, Metheus did so; a second of silence raised a scream of a banshee before Nico realised first, what happened.

"Mama!" He shouted, followed immediately by Bianca—who was clutching her side, "Mama, get up!"

It was in that moment that the doors of the church were opened; a pane of liquid gold fell across the dark and the dust. Father Falconi saw two broken bodies, a host of vultures, and two weeping children. He crossed himself and knelt to assess Maria; she was dead.

"Into the chapel," he commanded the di Angelo children. Nico shook his head.

"Can you get God to heal her?" He pleaded, "Can you make him? Please?"

"Please, Nico," he looked at Bianca, who still clutched her side, covering her waist with her hands. Ever the older sister, she used her free hand to drag her shocked brother into the chapel.

"Father," Nico begged, "Father, please, _please_..."

Bianca finally managed to drag her desolate brother into the musty safety of the chapel; little rivers of tears were running down her cheeks. Father Falconi waited until the door was shut before turning to face the police.

"They belong to us." Metheus stated calmly, when the Father closed the still-awake eyes of Maria and stood up.

"You killed their mother in front of them," Father Falconi replied in disgust, staring down the man. "Their sanctuary was her dying wish, will you deny it?"

"Their father is a gypsy—and the Lord does not look kindly on the thieves and murderers. The mother is a traitor to the country. They belong to us."

Father Falconi smiled wanly. "But Jesus made friends of sinners."

Metheus bit down his impatience and was ready to retort but Father Falconi raised his hands. "You have killed an innocent woman in front of a church" he gestured at the painted face of the Christ Child, the baby's eyes staring into what seemed their faces, each detail impeccably illuminated by the golden glow from within the church. "And now you will attempt to defy the sanctuary to take away two more innocents?"

Metheus had his jaw clenched, his eyes betraying fear for once that night as he stared at the stained glass. "Your soul," Father Falconi added, "how much more would you condemn it to hell? If you take one more step while they are under my protection—if one more innocent life is ripped away tonight—nothing in heaven or hell will save your soul from damnation."

Metheus finally averted his eyes; he stared at the hard ground. Hades feebly stirred. The body of Maria did not.

"We will leave, Father," he said, the words bitter in his mouth, "But don't count on their eternal safety. The Lord protects his own alone."

Father Falconi watched as they loaded up the body of Hades—there was only so much he could so—and waited until the jeep rushed off before he hurried inside the chapel. Bianca had her arms around her younger brother, who was sniffling. The British middldeman, Solace, who had once taken residence in Denmark—Father Falconi had heard rumours of a son and wife left behind for some reason, but he didn't have the time to wonder, the man was helping them now—had wrapped the waist of the girl with some sort of gauze.

"She was hit," he said, his accent clipped. "There isn't time for anything else, Father. We have to hope this holds. Their parents…" His voice drifted off.

Father Falconi glanced at the icons, his eyes drifting back to the window that had stirred the fear in Metheus moments previous. "They will not be joining us."

"I'm not going without my mother." Nico protested angrily; his hands were gripping a book, the pages oozing out of his clutched fists. "I am not leaving—"

"Mama is dead, Nico," Bianca said finally. The older girl swallowed her emotion, her sleek hair falling into her face, "I'm sorry but it's true. We have to go now."

"Your mother would have wanted your safety." Father Falconi confirmed.

"What about papa?" The boy protested, ignoring his sister, "What about—"

"Only God can help him, son," The man Solace said; whether he was sincere or not, the priest could not quite tell.

"When he is well, he will join us." Bianca said weakly; she was playing the duty of the eldest, stepping over to take care of the younger. "We have to go first, Nico. Come on!" His face old in the flickering candlelight, the boy finally nodded.

Solace looked back at the Father and tipped his hat. "We'll send word."

"God bless." The priest whispered as he followed them into the basement of the church. A small door thrust into the side of a cold, damp wall led into a passage that wound its way through the old catacombs, tearing its way to the wide sea.

Nico was the last one through, dragged by his older sister, and he cast his final look at the last he would see of his village before the door shut behind him.

-x-

"Do we kill him as well?" One of the Carabinieri asked Metheus as he gestured to the limp body of Hades.

"People fear different things," the man replied. He had eyes that were deceptively tender. He spoke to you in generous tones, and on first impression many would believe that he wanted nothing more than the good of others; he seemed to share a precious secret, a benign promise. "One of those fears were realised with the unfortunate… death," he paused. He would employ guards to surround the church from tomorrow on—no more would claim the sanctity of God to save them; his soul would remain untainted. "But some fear something more, so we must understand that. We will send di Angelo away and whether he survives is not to human will. His gypsy blood, though, will do him no favours."

-x-

On the bumpy boat that scaled the Atlantic to deliver the remaining half of the di Angelo family to freedom, one more of their number surrendered herself to the arms of death.

At first Solace feared another emotional reaction from the young boy, but what happened instead frightened him. The boy said nothing, only clutching the book. He only stared out into the sea as if it was his greatest enemy, his eyes burning fiercely behind a cool steel gate. The minute Nico's mother had died, he had learned that anything was possible, that safety was a myth, a lie.

In hindsight, the death must have been inevitable, but Solace could not shake the feeling that Nico already _knew._

* * *

Part II

and the stroke that hits the vein,  
the haemorrhage none can staunch, the grief,  
the curse no man can bear.

* * *

When he arrived on the shores of New York, the statue of Liberty holding her torch high above his head in an eternal salute to the heavens, Solace left him to the care of a family friend of the di Angelos, a general named Castellan. The older man had a estranged son with who he spoke little, and he took in Nico as if he was a second chance. During the summer, the empty flat across the road saw the arrival of a widower named Sally. She was the only motherly figure that Nico had, in those short visits.

A lot of the time, Nico traversed the streets. At first, with his skinny frame and his bad English, he had been a fodder for beatings. But soon something in his eyes scared his would-be aggressors, who kept their distance. The boy spent his time learning the new language and training. He only had his mother's native and his father's book to remind him of the old country—he kept out of the streets dominated by Italians, otherwise.

He did not see the reminders of the Old Country to remind him of what he lost; he did that very well on his own. At first he embraced grief like a child, consumed it with tears and a ripped, small heart. Then he had learned to turn his sadness inside out, to encase it in a walls of an oath.

He had made a promise when Bianca died. A face burned itself into his mind, the face of the man who killed his mother under the shadow of the church, whose bullets had torn into his sister's skin, who had broken his father; a man with eyes that pretended kindness and bled demons.

His death was the promise Nico made.

-x-

1943

The general rubbed his chin as he appraised the boy who stood before him. He was lean but made muscular from years from hard training. He had the ghost-eyes the general only recognised in the veteran soldiers, but Nico had not seen battle.

What the general did see, however, was a desire for vengeance. Sicilian blood; he had no connection with the mafia, this boy, but the general couldn't shake one of the stories that had stuck to him—of how the women of the Families would kiss the wounds of the departed and swear vendetta.

The di Angelo had asked to be sent—and maybe it was the general's own fault for being so eager to talk about the war with him, perhaps; but after years as a surrogate almost-father, though, he _did _trust him and so what—not with childish eagerness and a thirst for adventure, but with a hard agenda.

The general ceased the rubbing of his chin and nodded. He would send di Angelo; he may be young and inexperienced, but no one could argue against his determination.

Nico di Angelo would be going back to Sicily.

-x-

His mother would have laughed at the irony, Hades thought, as he shivered in the cold. His bones rattled in the paper thinness of his yellowing skin. The God of Death surrounded by it! Scrounging every day for scraps, the exhaustion and hunger eating him alive… the knowledge of the death of his wife and the unknowing of what his children had become…

Only one thing kept him alive, and the pattern of irony continued, for what anchored him to life was brought him here in the first place. There were other Roma here as well, and they had fashioned themselves crude instruments. It was the oddest sight, to see living skeletons playing music on tambourine bones. But the old music, the tiniest spark within the iciness of the East, kept him alive. They played sometimes, for the Jews on their way to the gas chambers; a small form of comfort in the face of death. The songs changed from time to time, but the defiance and fire in the small strain was always the same. It was a gesture of humanity, still alive in the face of horror. Hades had never been particularly inclined towards music, but the sung tale was a song that he wanted to climb into, a melody he wanted to live inside.

It kept him sane, it kept him alive.

* * *

Part III

But there is a cure in the house  
and not outside it, no,  
not from others but from them,  
their bloody strife.

* * *

Nico di Angelo had left the leering skulls of the catacombs behind. On his journey away from the island, the things had scared him to no end, but that was when he still played to the fingers of fear. Once his sister died, he stopped being afraid. How was he supposed to be scared of ghosts when the people he loved had become one?

The one to open the door into the church basement was none other than Father Falconi. In the seven years that Nico had been gone, the man had aged quickly. Wrinkles pressed themselves gently into his skin, making valleys out of the flesh around his eyes.

"Nico? Nico di Angelo?" The old man asked, as he shut the door behind him. "Praise the Lord, if only! It was you they sent, and how fitting… How fitting."

Nico nodded; he used words sparingly now, they were luxury that couldn't be wasted.

"You remember me, of course?" The old man asked with a measure of guilt; the memory of how he had only woken up in time to see the death of Maria had eaten at him, always.

"I remember, Father: sanctuary."

The priest bowed his head. "If you remember that man… Metheus…"

"It was who I came for—it's what this mission was all about. I'll need to know—"

"Naturally," the old man looked repulsed. "He's a grand man, that one. He comes to mass valiantly, he speaks of justice and loyalty and no one donates as much as him! It is no love of God, of course, but fear for his soul."

Nico raised a hand; he was uninterested in talks of anything he couldn't grasp. "I don't want to waste time, Father; do you think I could go tonight?"

"What is it you're planning to do again?"

"Just take a physical grasp of the place, map it out and such. Find the weak spots, all of that."

Father Falconi felt his old heart rise in hope. "It's coming, then?" he whispered, "The invasion?"

Despite himself, Nico felt the same steady joy. He ached fervently to be out there once more, to breathe the dry red dust of his childhood, to see the wild sea from the whitewashed and peeling clutter of houses which would stand like wrapped jewels in the midst of the dark and angry mountains in the night. He nodded and stepped silently into the cool and silent night.

Father Falconi watched his retreating back and turned to face the icons that littered the front of the chapel.

"Praise be!" The priest triumphed softly, "At last; the liberation of Sicily."

-x-

When Nico finished his scouting, before he returned to the church to await the arrival of the Allied soldiers, he took a flask of wine—he saved it solely for this purpose, he didn't find drinking helpful; he liked to punish himself by _remembering_—and tipped the blood-coloured liquid into the earth outside a copse of trees. It was a libation to the gods, so said the tiny book that was his probably dead father's only keepsake that he had; it was an ancient sacrifice to old deities to aid the children, to grant them triumph in battle.

Of course he didn't care much for spiritual battles, or so he told himself, but rituals were comforting, in their own way.

-x-

Metheus got up from his nightly prayers. His soul was clear, despite whatever the waddling priest from the church had to say. He would have instructed the man to be killed years ago, but he daren't murder a man of God, even though this one spoke words so blasphemous that they couldn't be true.

The priest could ignore the colours if he wished, but Metheus would not. Back on the mainland, Hitler's work might be steadily failing along with Mussolini, and he couldn't care less about what Japan was doing, but in this little corner of the Earth, he had his fist clenching the island of Sicily.

The next day he spent doing his usual work, convinced in his own righteousness, proclaiming his desire for the triumph of his people even as he continued to send others to their death.

He passed the church once, his eyes still avoiding the stained glass depiction—he could not ignore the reproachful eyes that stared at him, that reminded him of his imagined sin. Father Falconi stood outside, talking to a widow dangling a basket of wilted lettuce from her withered arm. His eyes met the ones of Metheus and he did not look away, although the other one had to. Despite what Metheus told himself, he feared for the purity of his soul.

The priest said his final words to the widow, declining the gifts that she proffered; the people of Sicily had continued to brush against poverty under the regime. He gave one final glance at the retreating back of Metheus, knowing what was planned for tonight. His old eyes swept the breadth of the country which he knew inside and out; of a land he was such a part of that it was akin to peeling the night sky in strips and eating it while leaving starlight smeared on its lips.

But the widow pressed and he finally accepted a small bit of lettuce; the boy soldier, the son of Maria and Hades, he would be hungry.

* * *

Part IV

We sing to you,  
dark gods beneath the earth.

Now hear, you blissful powers underground—  
answer the call, send help.  
Bless the children, give them triumph now.

* * *

The night was not made of pure darkness; it was instead made out of a slight brightness that allowed for a viewing of purple clouds smeared with grey that broke themselves apart, the shattered pieces drifting through the heavens.

Father Falconi was sitting in the pews, his thumb sliding against the beads of his rosary, his lips rising and falling in the murmur of a hymn, when Nico appeared, leading behind a band of soldiers—boys of about his age; the oldest was probably just twenty—from the staircases that led up from the basement.

Although smaller in stature, the presence of the di Angelo cast a pall over the rest of the jittery boys. He stepped forwards to approach Father Falconi.

"With your blessing, Father," he said, more out of tradition than anything.

The man pursed his lips. "I still believe that we should warn the rest of the village. To have them torn apart, in the midst of a fight they know nothing of?"

Again the boy's hard eyes scared him. "Father," he sighed, "It is a matter of trust. Who will warn Metheus? Can we be sure that they will not? It has to be done."

Father Falconi followed his shadowed eyes to the door of the church; behind them Nico had watched his mother die, had watched his father beaten and broken, had seen his sister clutching her side as a blossom of blood erupted from between her pale and childish fingers.

"Of course it has to be done," the priest said softly, "but it is how you will do it. Let me warn the rest of the villagers. You may see that some of them will be more than willing to help. What I ask for is a chance."

Nico sighed; it was not that he was heartless, but he was determined to finish his job without the interruption. But he agreed and he watched the old man rush off to warn the villagers.

"What the hell was that?" One of his mates asked, a stray cigarette dangling off his lips. "If anyone warns that bastard—"

"We're prepared, aren't we?" Nico asked impatiently. He stepped out through the doors. Slowly, the lights from the houses blinked awake. He could hear noise and sensed the troop behind him prepare themselves; he hoped to hell the Priest was right about allegiances.

After a while, he saw a bubble of people rushing through the dark: it was a crew of the hobbling old and the tottering young; women and men of all ages.

Father Falconi led the way. "Some of them do not agree," he said tiredly, "and I definitely think they will warn Metheus, but I have claimed sanctuary for those who cannot fight." He gestured the newly chaotic crowd into the chapel. A crowd of men—and some women who pulled hoods around their faces to disguise themselves—were gathered there.

"Metheus has declared his false doctrine long enough." One of them said, to shouts of agreement. The chapel was fully aglow with candles, and the streams of light broke through the kaleidoscopic windows, waking up the earth. Some of them seemed to recognise Nico, who heard the name of his parents and sister tossed around.

Shouts were rising from the village, and Nico saw figures begin to take a form through the dark. They were those who served Metheus, who agreed with Mussolini and Hitler. He bit his lip; this was what he spent all those hours training for; as a child he had wept himself out on this floor and ran away from his home, now he stood there prepared for battle, the fight building in his veins. There would be no running that night.

A discussion quickly broke out about the details of the fight; the assembled crew were tired of Metheus and the regime, and ready to take back the land. Their ancestors were Greek and Roman and Moorish; their gods were different and varied.

When they finally began to walk towards the village, Father Falconi bidding them his prayers as he stood ready to sanction the sanctuary of the church—though Nico had his doubts that any of Metheus's men would care anymore—they saw that Metheus had gathered his folk and were waiting for them, their rifles poised. Predicting something of this sort, his own men had brought extra weapons, though training might be lacking for the villages

The two sides appraised each other and Nico saw the silence again. His father's book was still in his breast pocket; he saw the skinny ghost of his sister dart amongst the trees. His mother was running through the street, one hand gripping his own.

"Metheus is mine." He said.

The head of the Carabinieri raised his eyes towards them—and there was no pretence of benevolence this time—and spoke to his own. "God is on our side," he promised, and his voice carried over, "The enemies of Italy and of His service stand against us—"

Nico's-mate-with-the-cigarette fired the first shot; it rippled through the enemy and sent the old cry of battle flying up; the people of Sicily were still bound to the old ways, their ancestors were the warriors and conquerors and they inherited their spirit. The sides met with a fury that surely roused the old deities.

Nico's friend shrugged, "Well, to hell with heaven, eh?" He muttered, before joining in the fray. Nico hurried to pitch in, swerving through the mass of orange mushrooms of gunshots and the screaming of battle—here and there chunks fell out of the buildings, leaving gaping holes that showed the insides—above the clouds continued to break apart, the sea continued to battle the craggy cliffs. His head pounded and his blood danced; his eyes were peeled for Metheus. Finally he saw the man and ran after him, dodging dust and rubble and blood.

Metheus was making his way to the church for some convoluted reason—and Nico hastened to follow—when he caught up he grabbed the man by the elbow and pinned him against a tree; the colours flashed across his skin, his wide eyes brimming with fear.

"Do you remember me?" Nico shouted, letting his enemy go and grapple with the weapon. "My mother, do you remember her?"

In the scuffle, the man let go of a shot which pierced through Nico's pocket and lodged itself into his father's book. Newly incensed, Nico raised his own gun and watched recognition grow on Metheus's face.

"The gypsy child," Metheus hissed, "The boy with the traitor mother who begged the Lord for protection."

"That's right," Nico sneered, "the gypsy child. And there was no protection that night. Sanctuary came too late."

"Not for you, didn't it?" Whether Metheus was making a point Nico couldn't tell, "You escaped and that I regret. A baptism of fire would have been the only thing that could save the souls of your kind. Your father—"

Nico heard the cacophony continue to erupt behind him; he saw the twisting form of Metheus in front of him and he saw Metheus shoot his gun out of his hand. Nico watched the weapon clatter through the tangle; he was now at Metheus's lack of mercy.

"May the Lord have mercy on your soul." Metheus smiled as his cocked his weapon. Just as he aimed to fire, a spare torch went whizzing through the tree above them, catching the sprigs aflame—one of them dropped and Nico stretched out to catch it and he threw it at Metheus just as he dodged the gunshot. The man screamed as he let go of the gun, brushing the flaming twig out of his face—angry red welts burst from his skin.

"I killed your heathen father!" Metheus gasped as he drew his fingers across his torn face in horror; Nico threw the gun aside once he realised it was out of bullets, "And by the name of the Lord, his devil soul went straight to hell; his name was _Hades_ and rightfully so, is he with the sinners, like his mother before him and like your mother—"

Nico straightened himself with a newfound fury. "No one," he said softly, his voice filled with purpose as the warriors of Sicily battled behind him, "No one will insult the House of Hades." He lunged at Metheus and the two grappled—a schoolboy fight to decide the fate of the rest; the fight of the Powers That Be won or lost by the hands of the little people—in their tiny corner.

Above them the tree still blazed and another flaming branch—and Nico could have sworn it fell with a scream of Seraphim fury—fell once more upon Metheus who let go of Nico in his pain—the boy scrambled out of the way just as the whole tree, all its ancient glory now awash in hellfire, fell upon Metheus, whose piteous, thin scream awoke the night. He was aware of the spiralling plumes of dancing fire reach its fingers towards the sky; of the screaming and clashing and keening around him.

Nico panted heavily, his lungs filled with dust and his brain spinning with smoke. "May the Lord have mercy on your soul." He whispered. He pulled himself up from the dry red dust of Sicily and blinked once. Bianca was gone from the trees; his mother no longer stared vacantly up at him from where she was killed.

And his father… he pulled out the book from his pocket; the bullet had lodged itself neatly inside the pages. He murmured a prayer of thanks—to whatever God was listening.

Before he joined the villagers, he stared once at the body of Metheus—his face remained unscathed; his eyes were open in horror and they stared in the direction of the church, away from the very eyes he had avoided in his sin.

* * *

Part V

His soul sat up. It met me.

* * *

Switzerland was cold; but Nico was pleasantly so in a woollen scarf drawn against his lips. The cabin that perched on the precipice of the snow-drenched cliffs of the Alps smelled of eggnog and honey and warmth.

He left it behind, bidding goodbye and thank-you to his hosts and made his way towards the small village in the valley. With the victory of the Allies, he heard news both good and bad; he believed both, for he had seen both horror and triumph, and he knew them well.

When he reached the address that matched the scribbled words on a piece of brittle paper in his hands, he took a breath of clear mountain air that sliced into his lungs before he knocked on the door.

As he waited, he was a child again, waiting for his father's approval; relishing his mother's smile.

The man who came was weak and thin, but there was colour in his cheeks and a glow in his eyes. In his hands Nico gripped the book that saved his life—that the father who had given him life had been the one to preserve it.

And Hades, as he stared into the grown face of his son, was seized by the same feeling of aching, defiant triumph that he had had listening to the tambourines even as he had sat amongst death. His back was straight.

"Father," Nico said, "Hello."


End file.
